Holding Up The Sky - Book II - Kolchab
by M. Wheels
Summary: Continuing the story begun in the book 'Thuban." Now what will "The Powers That Be" do with Colonel McQueen and Kylen? And how will these two people continue to deal with events that are outside their control?
1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer: The characters and situations of Space: Above and Beyond depicted in this story are the legal property of Glen Morgan and James Wong, Hard Eight Productions, and 20th Century Fox Television and have been used without permission. The basic character ideas for Amy Langston and Dale Steinbeck are borrowed from Rayhne and the gang at S:AaB Virtual TV, and are used with permission. All Authors quoted are listed below. No copyright infringement is intended. I am not attempting to copyright the work of others, nor am I attempting to use it for profit.

Book II - Kolchab

(One)

08 January 2065

Marine Corps Barracks, Eighth and I

Washington DC, USA

0700 AM

Even given seven days' notice, it had been an exercise in frustration for McQueen to arrive on time, appropriately attired. Traveling from Massachusetts to Maine - from Maine to Alabama - from Alabama to DC - he had been left to wonder again about just where his belongings from the Saratoga were. Just where were they floating around? On which transport? Where in the galaxy? His medals and sword were no problem. They really had no place in space - he had left them in storage at Loxley. It was his "party clothes" that presented the difficulty. There was an older set of his dress blues that would serve. They were in decent shape and they fit. His Evening Dress did not - not well - not the way he liked it to fit. McQueen had last worn it - what was it now? Three years ago? Surprisingly, the trousers needed to be taken in. And he needed new shoulder straps for his new rank. It was just something else that had taken time and energy, and that seemed to serve no real purpose. It had been a pain in the rear end, but at least McQueen was on time and squared away.

The Marine Barracks at Eighth and I had always been the Headquarters of The Marine Corps. Depending on who you talk to, Quantico may or may not be the brains of the outfit, but it is generally agreed that Eighth and I has always been its heart and soul. 

McQueen had not been told why he was to report to DC. A smart Marine did not question legal orders - and he was a smart Marine. He presented himself at the appropriate time, in the appropriate uniform, and with the appropriate gear: 0700 - Dress A with medals - sword. 

It wasn't as if he was clueless. McQueen had a good idea now of why he was to report, between what Kylen had told him about her invitation and what, as a very smart Marine, he could put together on his own. He just didn't know the particulars.

After he had presented himself and his orders at the appointed time and place, McQueen met with a captain from human resources. 

It was not, as he had hoped, a meeting to pass along his new assignment. Captain Angela Armstrong gave him a cup of coffee and a copy of his one-page official bio, which he was to read and correct. "In red ink, please, Colonel," she said, handing him the pen. The captain was from the protocol office. She was a rather officious little geek, obviously present only to run him through a review of paperwork and protocol. She loved her job just a little too much for McQueen's taste. Armstrong left him alone and returned after precisely fifteen minutes.

"Is Ms. Celina with you, Sir?" 

"I didn't know that Ms. Celina was considered part of my 'gear.' If the Corps had issued me a survivor I would have shown up with one," he snapped.

McQueen's sarcasm floated over the Captain's head. She had too many things on her mind - too many things to put together in too little time. Two major events to stage-manage. Two events that each generally took a month to plan and she was trying to put them together in less than two weeks. She was a busy woman.

"I had hoped to have a chance to review some of tomorrow's activities and protocol with her," the captain almost blurted. But she was efficient, able to think on her feet and to handle rapidly shifting priorities. An important skill for the person charged with protocol - it was how she had achieved her billet. Armstrong turned her thoughts back to the Colonel, who she found rather abrupt, but who looked the perfect picture of a decorated Marine officer. "_That's a relief."_

"This ceremony was all laid on pretty quickly. I'm trying to tie up all the loose ends," she muttered rather distracted.

"And I'm a loose end" he asked wryly.

"You, Sir? No. But there are a few surrounding you." The captain finally stopped shuffling her paperwork and actually made eye contact. She paused and then smiled. "Colonel, do you understand why you are here?" 

McQueen returned her look with what could best be called his 'command gaze,' giving her the once over. "_Look, little Captain, I don't have time to play games with boot licking Command Staff REMFs. I'm a busy man,"_ he thought, but was immediately forced to reconsider. "_Unfortunately, I'm NOT a busy man. I have nothing to do and nothing BUT time."_

"Not precisely. No," he answered.

"Well, Sir, the President of the United States and the Senate are tired of Her Excellency, Secretary General Diane Hayden, and the rest of the powers that be at the United Nations dragging their feet on this issue. We are due over at the Big House at ten-hundred hours and I'm to review the agenda with you."

Members of the military were strictly forbidden to express political opinions when on duty or in uniform: Such had been the case for almost three hundred years. The captain's tone of voice when referring to Diane Hayden skirted the boundaries of neutrality. McQueen found himself beginning to like this little protocol ramrod. In the back of his mind he wondered how she had made the height and weight requirements necessary for entry into the Corps. He turned his full attention to what the she had to say.


	2. Two

(Two)

08 January, 2065

The White House

Washington, DC, USA

The President of the United States Of America takes pride in presenting the Medal of Honor posthumously to

Lieutenant Paul Wang

United States Marine Corps

For service set forth in the following

Citation:

For conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty as First Lieutenant serving with the Fifty-eighth Squadron, Fifth Marine Expeditionary Unit, in action against the enemy alien forces in the Ceres Region, 27 October 2064. Ordered to retrieve civilian hostages from the hands of the enemy after the failed Saratoga Peace Talks, Lieutenant Paul Wang shrewdly gauged the tactical situation when the enemy attacked and disabled the Inter-Solar-System Armored Personnel Carrier carrying the colonial hostages. After laying down ferocious cover-fire Lieutenant Wang voluntarily detached his carrier from the flight wing of the ISSAPC, freeing said wing to dock with the free floating hostage carrier. Alone and drifting without power, he unhesitatingly braved the increasing fusillades of enemy fighter cannon, returning fire and drawing off large numbers of enemy craft, allowing the hostage carrier to dock with the flight wing. Coolly disregarding his personal peril he continued to fire upon the enemy while the remaining members of his squadron achieved the mission objective, removing the hostages to safety. Stouthearted and indomitable, Lieutenant Wang shot down two enemy aircraft before being killed when shrapnel careened into his vessel. By his great personal valor, daring tactics and tenacious perseverance in the face of extreme peril, he had contributed materially to the fulfillment of his squadron's mission. His outstanding heroism, unwavering devotion to duty, and gallant conduct throughout reflect the highest credit to himself and enhance and sustain the highest traditions of the United States Naval Service.


	3. Three

(Three)

O8 January 2065

The White House

Washington, DC, USA.

1000 hours

The Big House was not the Commandant's home - it was the President's. The reception and ceremony took place in the East Room. It had all the trappings one would imagine of The White House, but the event would be described in the press as a personal gathering_: "The President, First Lady, selected members of Congress and involved members of the diplomatic community hosted a small reception for the multinational Vesta and Tellus survivors." _ Twenty-seven of the group had accepted the invitation, each bringing up to four family members. Kylen had accepted and was accompanied by her father, Allston and Bridee. Eithne had declined to attend.

Senators and Congressmen had jockeyed for position, and foreign ambassadors had responded with RSVPs in almost unseeming haste. The French Ambassador had gone so far as to accept by making a personal phone call. It was too delicious an insult to 'Dear Diane.' The President of the United States had performed a dangerous political highwire act and had succeeded brilliantly.

Public opinion - the polls - had pointed to the fact that the public felt strongly that 'something' should be done for the survivors. The United Nations - specifically the Secretary General of the United Nations - had been remarkably closemouthed about the issue. A single three-sentence press release a week after the return of the hostages was all that the UN had offered. The White House affair was a virtual slap in the face to Diane Hayden, but couched, as it was under the guise of "personal reception" there was little she could do. Any retaliation, public or private, would call into focus both her lack of action and her ties to Aerotech, which she wished to avoid at all cost. She hated being finessed - hated being outmaneuvered. But Diane Hayden was nothing if not practical. While revenge might be a dish best served cold, it was a meal she would have to forego. It was in her own best interests to ignore the whole thing. 

A healthy cadre of high-ranking Marine Corps officers had been invited. As far as the spin-doctors had been concerned, this event could serve a variety of purposes, one of which was to pour more oil on the troubled InVitro Rights waters. This InVitro, Colonel McQueen, was now on Earth. He had been the C.O. of the Fifty-eighth Squadron, which had saved the hostages. There was good press in that, and it tied things together quite nicely. Within the Fifty-eighth Squadron there was an MOH winner - unfortunately a posthumous award. It would have made even better press if the guy had lived, but there you have it. Evidently this 'Tank' Colonel had managed to cover himself with glory in the last year, and the Board of Awards had recommended said officer for at least two new decorations plus a fourth Purple Heart and additions to his flight medal. 

This personal reception - for approximately one hundred and eighty people all told - would be a perfect venue. The President could recognize the achievements of an individual InVitro and not address the issue directly. Everybody could read what they wanted into this Colonel's award ceremony. The InVitro Rights people would feel vindicated that one of their own had been received with honor by the head of state, and the Anti-InVitro Rights people could feel equally vindicated that, while this one InVitro might be in The White House, he was the exception, proving the rule that the majority of Tanks didn't have what it takes to get the job done. It was rare that such an ambiguous, and therefore satisfying, opportunity presented itself. 

A clutch of three spin-doctors stood to the side ready to step in. Ready to move things along in the direction of their choosing. The White House photographers were busy. It had been decided that pictures should be taken in the receiving line before the event. The President was a busy man. Shutters snapped and people were shown to their seats. A dicey moment occurred when the French Ambassador, Claire Montresant, greeted the InVitro Colonel. A lackey was immediately dispatched to show the Ambassador to her place in the front row.

"What happened?" he was quizzed upon his return to the clutch.

"Nothing really. Just a how-do-you-do evidently. Until we were walking away, and then good old Claire made some comment about how he carried himself well for a tank."

"Oh great. Trust Claire."

"Did he hear her?"

"She said it in French."

"He speaks French."

"You're kidding. No way."

"I don't think he heard. The Ambassador did give him a note from Chaput, though."

"From Chaput? Good Lord, I hope he doesn't open it 'til after the ceremony."

"Chaput? Now what is THAT all about?" 

"I would love to know."

"Nothing we can do about it now."

"Do you think the InVitro understands the politics of all of this?" the lackey asked his betters.

"No way. Do YOU even understand the politics of all of this?"

"But I think that he knows quicksand when he sees it," chimed in another one of the bosses.

"You think?"

"Oh yes."

"In any case, he has better manners than our 'dear' French Ambassador."

"He does, doesn't he?"

When everyone was seated, the Ambassador from Finland, as a guest of the country, was introduced first, and presented Colonel T.C. McQueen with the Order of the Commander of The White Rose of Finland. "For valor during action against the enemy while serving with a joint task force with members of the Finnish Defense Forces." McQueen spoke a few words of appreciation to the Ambassador - in Finnish - and the spin-doctors beamed at their impossible good fortune. The lackey immediately peeled off to find a translator. The press would want it in English. 

The Colonel then received the Purple Heart, Naval Commendation Medal (his second) and additions to his flight medal (both individual and group flights) from the hand of The Commandant of The Marine Corps. 

The President of the United States then awarded the Presidential Unit Citation to the Fifty-eighth Squadron, Marine Corps Air Cavalry, for actions against the enemy, culminating on the planet Kazbeck. Colonel T.C. McQueen received the Distinguished Flying Cross and the Silver Star from the hands of the President himself. The citations for these medals - as read publicly - said only: " For unspecified action against enemy forces." Only the dullest knife in the drawer wouldn't realize that this signified actions still considered to be classified, but the Anti IV Rights people could, if put in the position of debate, use this against the Pro IV Rights faction. Politically it neutered the public debate over the medals, and effectively it also removed the Colonel as a rallying point. And finally, as the piece de resistance, the parents of the late First Lieutenant Paul Wang received his Medal of Honor. 

The lackey returned with news. "The scary guy with the blue eyes quoted something from some big deal Finnish epic poem." 

"What did he say?"

"What does it mean?" 

"Don't know yet," the lackey responded.

"Who cares. Epic poem is good enough." The spin-doctors were beside themselves and felt flush with success.

It was truly fitting that Paul Wang's family should receive his medal in this company. A number of the hostages, immediately upon arrival at the Greenbrier, had begun to lobby their congressmen to honor Paul's self-sacrifice. The event itself was more emotional than most had anticipated, and all of the survivors were moved to tears during the reading of the citation. Kylen was unable to bring herself to look at McQueen; afraid that seeing his reaction would rob her of her tenuous self-control. She now felt that she knew Paul, knew him through Nathan's and McQueen's eyes. Kylen was afraid she would lose it completely.

After the ceremony photographs were again taken: McQueen standing with the Ambassador and the President, with just the Ambassador, with just the President. A few congressmen got into the act, but it was over fairly quickly. McQueen moved to the side of the room, unaware that the lackey had been given orders: "Don't take your eyes off of him. And don't let Montresant near him."

Kylen was somewhat distressed to see that the political hot-dogs were surrounding the Wang family. They were all eager to have their pictures taken to demonstrate to their constituency just how involved they were in the War effort. The Wangs looked increasingly bewildered. Kylen was relieved to see, and to join in with, a group of survivors who moved forward and effectively blocked some of the political bootlickers from reaching the Wangs. This was, after all, supposed to be a reception for the survivors and to honor the man who had died to bring them home. The former hostages all instinctively dealt with the Wangs on a quiet and personal level - comforting and accepting them now as part of the group of survivors. The atmosphere of the event changed and became more soothing and intimate. Paul's parents and little brother had a chance to see the gratitude and feel the affection of the group. Their son's bravery was given a human face - in fact, the faces of the twenty-seven humans present that day and the others who did not or could not attend. They could touch the life within these people. Forty people, eighty, one hundred and sixty - generations on and on ... All of these people would be a testament to their son. 

McQueen observed the interaction for several minutes. A young Marine wearing the braid and badge of White House service appeared at his side.

"Excuse me, Colonel," she said softly. "The First Lady is ready to host the luncheon. I'm sorry to break this up, but if you will assist, Sir, and escort Mrs. Wang into the State Dining Room. You will be seated to her right. I'll make the announcement and escort Mr. Wang. I believe, Sir, that with you taking the lead, we can accomplish the move without insulting the moment and the memory of Lieutenant Wang." 

McQueen paused for a few seconds. It was a shame to break up the moment, but this was the White House. People here had jobs to do. The aide had offered a good solution. 

"I would be honored," he said, and moved out with the aide de camp, crossing the width of the East Room to the Wangs. The lackey relaxed. The tank was somebody else's problem now.


	4. Four

(Four)

O8 January 2065

The White House

Washington, DC, USA.

1130 hours

While he waited to take his seat, McQueen noted the fact that, the President having returned to the Oval Office, most of the diplomats and the political bigwigs had disappeared. They had chosen to decline an invitation to lunch and a private tour of the White House. _"The moment has passed - there is no more political currency to be gained by eating lunch. They obviously have things they need to do,_" he thought_. "Or perhaps they weren't invited. Aerotech certainly wasn't."_ That gave him a certain amount of personal satisfaction. _"Or maybe this all really was a gesture of kindness on the part of the First Lady."_

McQueen watched with a certain level of understanding as a number of the former hostages surreptitiously moved their placecards so that they could be seated facing exits. _"Where is she?"_ He looked for Kylen's table, but was too late to see if she had moved her card. He would not have been in the least surprised if she had done so. If the fact that people had switched seats upset any of the valets or waiters, then they didn't show it. 

The Colonel was seated between The First Lady and Mrs. Wang. Classes taken during Officer's Candidate School had taught him the appropriate nuts and bolts for such an occasion, and during their time together Amy had imparted a good deal of knowledge and a subsequent level of polish. Unfortunately, small talk had never been and probably would never be his forte.

It didn't take long for the President's wife to realized that no one at her table had a hidden agenda. No one wanted anything from her or had an ax to grind. It was rare and it was refreshing, but she found that she had to use a different part of her brain. The guests at her table were not particularly comfortable with each other, and she had to cast around to find a method of easing the tension. Thankfully, the First Lady was a skilled conversationalist and had received a good briefing from her staff. The people at her table were rather charming, each in his or her own way, even the taciturn Marine. It would take some work, but she was confident that she could find a way to relax the atmosphere.

Kylen had indeed moved her placecard. She still never liked to sit with her back to a door, still feeling the need to gauge potential escape routes. Kylen was surprised when she looked up from her little bit of slight-of-hand. McQueen was watching her. _"I wonder if he saw?"_ she thought. He was all 'Door Number Two' at this point - the military commander. She therefore found it more difficult to read his reaction. He finally gave her the briefest of half smiles.

Kylen was delighted to see that Martin was seated with her family. Martin Aalto Guilio was the lone surviving InVitro Colonist. With the receiving line and photographs earlier, Kylen had not been able to really speak with him. The otherworldly young man who could make the Sewell fuel - The Pink - vibrate by singing was accompanied by a middle-aged Native American woman. Six weeks ago Martin had been offered the hospitality of a Navajo reservation in Arizona, courtesy of General Radford. Kylen had only spoken with Martin long enough to learn that he was doing fairly well and that the woman was Radford's sister.

During lunch Kylen's family became increasingly involved in a conversation with Martin and Dawn Radford Chee. Though Martin was biologically almost six years older than Allston, they were a good fit. Each had found a needed buddy in this formal atmosphere. Martin said something about Colonel McQueen, and Kylen half-heard Allston telling the young InVitro that Colonel McQueen was a 'friend of the family.' Kylen shook her head indulgently. She knew that Allston, Sky King, was a bit intimidated by McQueen, and now he spoke of him as if they were old buddies.

General Radford's sister's full name, it turned out, was Dawntreader, and Bridee was fascinated with her squash-blossom jewelry. Frank was interested in life and conditions on the reservation. It seemed to Kylen that they all were having a pleasant time.

The First Lady had finally decided to try to get her guests to talk about Paul Wang. A bit risky - true - and it could result in tears, but Mr. and Mrs. Wang seemed to light up when their son was mentioned. They quickly opened up. The Colonel was obviously interested, but still did not take an active role in the conversation.

"_They talk about him as if he was still a little kid. I don't know who they are talking about. ... And I don't imagine that they want to hear my stories - not really,"_ McQueen thought. This was something new to him - new since meeting West's parents. West's mother had clutched a picture of Neil - at about the age of ten - to her chest while she had blasted him with her grievances against the war and the Marine Corps. The picture of Neil wearing the Marine uniform was high up on the shelf - ignored - as if the fighting man had never existed. Not for the first time McQueen wondered: "_Is this how all natural-borns see their children? As always being children?"_

McQueen unexpectedly knew that he had just been given an insight into the workings of 'Naturals' - something he may have thought that he had understood, but really hadn't until that moment. Twenty-three years out of the tank and there were still some subtleties of natural-born behaviors that McQueen couldn't quite get his mind around. The first funeral he had ever attended was when he was eight years out of the tank. There were no services for the dead on Omicron Draconis. There had been no memorials - no rituals - unless you wanted to consider taking boots off of dead bodies a ritual. Boots were hard to come by. The overseers had, for the most part, kept each 'crop' of InVitros separate. Older tanks were known to breed discontent in the younger ones. Best to keep them apart. Keep them isolated. Get a new batch when about half of the old one had died off. Consequently McQueen had spent the first five years of his life with only his own history and what habits his group came up with. He really hadn't spent any time with older tanks until the InVitro platoons - it was here that he had gotten his first real taste of the broader InVitro subculture. And, despite the discrimination, it was here that he had gotten his first taste of tradition: He had fallen on it like a starving man.

__

"The only religion in the mines had been to avoid pain, eat as much as you could and sleep whenever possible. Hell, I didn't know anything about organized religions 'til basic training." Sitting in the State Dining Room of the White House, surround by the crystal and china - the servants and the ceremony - McQueen had an uncanny experience. A vision of the formidable Sergeant Menendez appeared in his mind - voice like a gravel crusher. "_You had best get your pagan ass to chapel every Sunday without fail, Maggot."_ McQueen hadn't been sure what the word 'pagan' meant at the time, but he had dragged his butt to chapel every Sunday morning. To hear the singing alone was worth it - especially if the southern guys got rolling - swaying, clapping their hands, and giving the 'call and return' of gospel music. McQueen had watched in silent amazement. That was when he had started to study the life and death rituals of Natural-borns. He had studied them, but he knew that he was still learning to understand them. 

His first several years in the service, the funerals and the memorial services that McQueen had attended were all for people his own age, or there about, and he had hung with the Marines and avoided the families at all cost. He had carried caskets and folded flags, and had tried with varying degrees of success to maintain his emotional distance. But McQueen had known these young Marines as just that - Marines - and Marines died. During the last decade, McQueen had written his share of letters to grieving parents, but had never dealt with them face to face - until recently. There had been five years of peace. Only since the start of this war had he officiated over the ceremonies for someone noticeably younger than himself. McQueen realized that part of him would always remember his Kids at the age they were when he first saw them. Not children perhaps, but almost unbelievably young.

The Wangs continued to tell stories about this guy named Paul. It did not make McQueen particularly uncomfortable, although he felt unable to join the conversation. He was not involved - McQueen had never met the guy they were talking about. As long as he didn't recognize the person they were speaking about, McQueen didn't have to worry about his feelings. Their conversation did not affect him. He could remain detached.

McQueen tuned back into the conversation. Mrs. Wang was speaking. "_The mothers. Is it always the mothers?"_ McQueen asked himself.

"Remember the Halloween when Paul was about ten? He went out trick or treating and brought home a full bag. He changed his costume - dressing up like a bum - and went out again to the same houses. People must have known, but he came home with a second bag chock full of candy."

McQueen felt his heart catch. This was the young marine that he knew. The kid who loved to gossip, the wiseacre - The Joker.

"Now that sounds like Wang," he said before he could censor himself.

"It does, doesn't it? It sort of says it all," Mr. Wang said, and then smiled, rather sadly. 

"The sod from Wrigley field was still growing when I left the Saratoga," McQueen offered. "Wang watered it and trimmed it with scissors." The entire Wang family put down their forks and stared at the Colonel. The quiet was ominous. He had touched a nerve. _"Oh, hell."_

The First Lady sensed that the mood had shifted dangerously. "You actually sent Paul sod from Wrigley Field? How did you ever get it? Oh, tell me this story." The moment was broken. The tears so close to the surface retreated, and the Wang's told the tale.

While Kylen's family was opening up and becoming more sociable, she was withdrawing further and further into herself. She found that she was watching people and listening to their conversations as if she was not involved - as if she was watching a movie. Detached. Separated.

Dessert and coffee were now finished and people were beginning to mill about, waiting to be led off in small groups for private guided tours of the White House. A large number of people drifted over to Kylen's table - they wanted to see Martin again. Kylen and Martin stood together making small talk and introductions, but she was still distracted.

It was so strange seeing these people again. They shared a bond. A bond that should not be broken - they needed each other on an elemental level. But as Kylen mouthed words that she couldn't remember as soon as she said them, she realized something else on an elemental level. She knew these people. Knew them too well. Their strengths and weaknesses. Their foibles. Their pettiness. Things that they did when they thought no one was watching. The survivors knew each other too well. Knew each other in ways that no one should be able to know anyone else. Totally stripped of any and all pretense or protection. "_That's who you really are. What you do in the dark when you think no one is watching,"_ she thought. _"And these people know the same about me."_

Kylen knew a truth. "_I never wanted to see any of these people ever again. Ever."_ She shuddered.

"What's the matter?" Martin whispered.

Kylen spoke her new truth before she thought better of it. 

"I never want to see these people again in my life," she whispered through her teeth, still smiling a 'receiving line' smile.

"I was thinking the same thing, ... Well, sort of," he whispered. 

They looked at each other. Each mildly shocked. 

Martin spoke tentatively. "If one of them called and needed to talk to me ... Well, I'd talk to that person - any one of them. I wouldn't turn any of them away. But you and I are different somehow. We are friends somehow. At least I thought we were. You were there ... with me. You felt it, Kylen. You felt the stone singing back."

"Oh yes, Martin. I did feel it." Kylen threw her arms around the young InVitro's neck and hugged him tightly. She remembered the almost painful beauty of the moment Martin discovered that the Pink could vibrate." And yes, we are friends," she whispered in his ear. It was another truth. She wanted to keep track of Martin.

He returned her hug. "Do you think that other people feel the same way? That they never want to see us again?" he asked.

"I'd be surprised if a lot of them didn't feel that way," she said. "But it isn't personal. It's just ... what it is."

"But it is sort of frightening. Like being cast adrift," Martin whispered.

"I know, Martin. I feel it too," Kylen admitted.

Martin squeezed her hand. One of the guides came to their table and they moved off to begin their tour. Martin and Kylen were still holding hands. They were like little children on a school outing - holding hands so no one gets lost.

08 January 2065

BOQ, Henderson Hall

Arlington, Virginia

USA

2230

The afternoon McQueen had spent with General Wierick and his staff. He was to see them again tomorrow. Captain Armstrong had stopped by briefly in the evening. McQueen was beat. _"It is amazing how a mental workout can be as tiring as a physical workout."_ Curiosity finally got to Ty and he opened the note that the French Ambassador had passed into his hand almost twelve hours earlier. "From Chaput," she had said. 

My Dear Colonel,

I understand that you now know the heavy burden of the truth that I have carried for months. Things better left unsaid - at least for now. 

I was truly glad that you managed to keep your head. Watch out for Madam le Guillotine - you confound her again and she will not look kindly upon you. 

Congratulations. I will continue to follow your career with interest. I will always know where to look for the winds of change. They swirl around you.

Bonne Chance, Mon ami

N.C.

Colonel McQueen tore the United Nations stationery into little pieces and flushed the bits down the toilet. He pushed the lever a second time in disgust before hitting the rack.


	5. Five

(Five)

09 January 2065

Washington DC, 

USA

Unbelievably enough for the rather jaded and sophisticated city of Washington, DC, there really is a hotel with the rather small-town name of 'Hotel Washington.' While not in the highest echelons of elegance, service and history, like The Jefferson or The Willard, or Hay-Adams, it is nonetheless considered one of the grand old dames of the Capital. The Vesta/Tellus group had been given rooms there for their four-night stay in the city. Four nights only because, even with the new restrictions, it was still more economical to travel having "stayed over Saturday." But the travel and accommodations had been paid for. 

The counselors from The Greenbrier had been brought in and were meeting with individuals and families to check on progress, and there were lists of available tours, concerts, plays, and events that the group could attend - most at their own expense. 

It was Friday. There were tours during the day, and in the evening the Wang family was going to The Folger to see 'Henry V' - a suitable choice for a production at the Shakespeare Museum. The Celina family was going to attend a concert at The Kennedy Center. Kylen, however, had other plans for the evening. She had been invited to attend an event curiously referred to as Mess Night at Marine Corps Headquarters. She had an early breakfast with an officer from the protocol office - one Captain Armstrong. "So the briefing need not interfere with your plans for the day, Ma'am." After her meeting with the captain Kylen had promptly phoned Amy Langston to get the straight dope on this type of event. "Amy, Amy, Amy help me out here."

A few weeks earlier Amy Langston, nee McQueen, the Colonel's ex-wife and through a series of coincidences his rehabilitation therapist, had been openly infuriated by Kylen's little bomb about going to work for the Marine Corps. Ty's oblique assurances that "Kylen has her reasons" had only partially oiled the waters. Amy had become fond of Kylen, had started to build a relationship independent of the McQueen connection. She had been forced to come to a painful decision. If she wanted to maintain her growing friendship with Kylen, Amy would have to swallow, or at least not give voice to, some of her old resentments. 

As it turned out Amy had only attended two Mess Nights, once when she and her father had made the fateful visit to Loxley and the second time while she been married to McQueen. A former member of the Angry Angels had retired and was given a Mess Night to "dine-out" her detachment. Amy remembered that night not so much for the tradition it signified, but rather for the memorable argument that had followed: Amy had felt that Ty should resign his commission - that he could 'do better' - and T.C. McQueen was not interested in leaving the Marine Corps. 

Kylen filled Amy in on the events of the awards ceremony at the White House the day before. Amy laughed to herself. But the picture of McQueen with The President of the United States? Amy could only imagine her estranged father prowling around his office in the Senate absolutely apoplectic with rage at an InVitro being received in such a manner. And then to have the InVitro be Ty? Well, it was immensely satisfying. Amy had to caution herself. She mustn't use T.C. McQueen as a weapon against her father. Not again. She had done it before and the results had been disastrous. She had been unthinking, and the upshot had been cruel - to both T.C. and to herself. Amy and McQueen had finally achieved an almost comfortable rapprochement of their tumultuous relationship. They had started, it seemed, to forgive one another. They might one day even become friends after a fashion.

Occasionally a guest list was included with the invitation to Mess Night. When Kylen read it off to Amy, the older woman could only whistle her surprise. McQueen was playing with the Big Boys.

"Mess Night is equivalent to a black tie affair. It is formal. Did McQueen give you any pointers?" Amy asked, using Ty's surname, which in her case was a sure sign of irritation.

"He just said it was a nice dinner ... that I'd know what to do ... and to be on time," Kylen replied, her anxiety beginning to grow.

Amy shook her head. "Well, that's typical McQueen. But, from him ... consider it a compliment. How about this captain? Did she give you any info?"

Kylen waved a sheet of paper in front of the vid/phone camera. "Pages out of the Marine Officer's Guide."

"Good. That's more than I ever got," Amy said with a trace of bitterness.

"I thought it was just a dinner for the Ambassador - because The Colonel was given that decoration from Finland. But there are lists here," Kylen emphasized. "A list of people and another whole list of things that have to happen in a certain order."

"Kylen, the Marine Corps has a ritual for everything. Somewhere there are written directions for tying your shoes. But you don't have to perform the rituals. You are a guest: Remember that. You take part, but someone will be there to help you. McQueen has done this before," Amy said, but then she had a thought. "_Never in such a rarefied atmosphere. I wonder how nervous he is. Always hard to tell."_

"Now I'm not sure why I was invited," Kylen said. "I thought it was just to be company for Colonel McQueen. But now this?" Kylen again waved the papers in the air.

It seemed patently obvious to Amy, who had taken in politics along with her cornflakes - at the breakfast table - since childhood. "They are using this as an introduction. I don't know what job they have in mind for you, Kylen, and I don't think that I want to know. But you were invited so that the 'players' could meet you and so that your stamp of approval would be obvious. Trust me, aides-de-camp are scribbling your name into their notebooks even as we speak."

Kylen looked uncomfortable.

"Then again," Amy continued, "you were undoubtedly included to be company for Ty. In any case, the deals are made after dinner and the toasts, so stay on your toes and keep your eyes open. Takes notes. Go to the bathroom and write things down."

Kylen's initial excitement about the evening was fast turning into dread. _"Deals made after dinner? Writing notes in the bathroom?"_ Sitting in a basement someplace reading people's mail was starting to look like a good alternative.

"Couldn't it really just be a nice dinner?" she asked. Kylen almost wished that she hadn't called Amy. In retrospect, she much preferred McQueen's terse shorthand explanation.

"Kylen, you are in Washington, DC. Even a nice dinner party is going to have an agenda." Amy could see that she may have been too forthright. She hadn't needed to be quite so blunt, but she hadn't been able to temper enough of her resentments or her political barometer. She had made Kylen nervous. Amy attempted to lighten the tone by changing the subject to one which was still of importance to most women and their feelings of confidence. "What are you going to wear?"

It was soon obvious to Amy that Kylen needed the boost that only a new and more sophisticated garment could impart. Amy immediately set up a conference call to one of her old roommates. The Celina tribe went on a tour of the city without Kylen, who instead went shopping with Amy's friend. It seemed that there was a little known but rather sizable underground of high-end resale shops in the DC area. There was a brisk market for all those suits, dresses and gowns worn by the politicos and Foreign Service types. Kylen had a good time, the appropriate gown and renewed confidence by one-o'clock. And by two-o'clock she had a manicure, the blackened areas of her fingernails covered with a warm rosy lacquer.

Colonel T.C. McQueen, on the other hand, spent the day over at the Pentagon. It was rare that someone from the front lines of his rank and caliber made it back to Earth. A lot of people wanted to attend what could best be termed a debriefing - though unlike any he had ever been through before. A lot of people came and went. Subjects jumped around, but everyone let him finish all of his thoughts and didn't interrupt. What was gratifying about the rather grueling day was the fact that people appeared to be listening. The questions posed to the Colonel did not contain veiled threats. They were in no way accusatory, but rather probing and frequently thought provoking.

If the Brass wanted something specific from him they didn't let him know. McQueen remembered what Kylen had told him about children. "_They 'want.' They just don't know what it is they want."_ He shook his head, feeling that he had missed something.

09 January 2065

Washington, DC

USA

1815 hours

It was 6:15 PM and Kylen was again sitting in front of the vid/phone. She had checked in with Amy and had received her final bits of advice on behavior, protocol and appearance, but she was now speaking with Eithne. Kylen was pretending. _"I'm NOT lying,"_ she told herself. _"I'm pretending. Please, God, let this go well."_

Kylen was attempting to mend fences with her sister by asking Eithne's advice on the final touches of her appearance - touches that Amy had already given her - but it was a way to reconnect with her artistic and dramatic younger sister.

The entire trip had been slightly tainted for Kylen. She had asked Eithne to come with them, and her younger sister had refused in no uncertain and very colorful terms. From the cradle, Eithne had been known as the familial spitfire. Her brothers said the she was "a redhead and all that that implied." She was talented and driven and had hitched her wagon to a star. She would dance no matter what, and at the age of fifteen had won a scholarship to Boston's School of the Arts.

Eithne's volatile personality was kept in line by her father, to whom she was devoted, and by her brothers and sisters, who occasionally made fun of, but generally ignored, her tirades. About once a year or so there would be an argument with one of her siblings: A series of fireworks that blazed, boomed and crackled, and then died out just as quickly. It was just Eithne after all. 

Kylen now remembered the whole incident that had happened only a few days ago as 'Eithne's Refusal' - complete with quotation marks and capital letters. The event had become like a national news break on television: It replayed itself incessantly - breaking in on other thoughts - interrupting and distracting her - affecting her ability to concentrate on the tasks at hand. No one can fight like family members, and this had started out as the usual family difference of opinion. It became almost immediately obvious that Kylen, at least, was not viewing the exchange as usual or common. Kylen was tired of dancing around Eithne's temperament. Life was too short to put up with mini-dramas. Once the two got started, an argument of historic proportions had ensued. There were no cooler, more mature heads around to diffuse the emotional confrontation. Frank had been at the university, and Ewan had been out at the barn.

Kylen had been walking around full of emotional disappointments and wounds that were only just beginning to heal. Eithne had seen her ambitions and possibly her entire career in the ballet placed on indefinite hold due to the War. Unconsciously they each had been spoiling for a fight. They had known exactly which buttons to push. It had been a reaction that neither one was capable of stopping - a chemical reaction that now had to run its course. Old jealousies and sibling rivalries had bubbled up and burst with acidic violence on the seemingly calm surface of the family. It had become clear that Eithne had a world of resentments to dump about Kylen's ill-fated Tellus mission and what the family had gone through in her absence and supposed death. Kylen had had it up to here with Eithne's narrow, provincial view of the War: The comfortable life filled with opportunities that the younger sister took for granted. At seventeen there was no excuse to think that your life was over. Not unless and until you had a gun pointed in your face.

Each sister had accused the other of being selfish and self-absorbed. Things had escalated rapidly. 

Eithne had only been gunning for the old bob and weave. The usual. She had been frankly shocked that the fight did not progress like fights usually did. She had pushed too hard one too many times - was not prepared for the result - and was soon outclassed. There was no way on God's green earth that Kylen was going to let Eithne out of that kitchen with just the sound of footsteps pounding up the stairs and a door slamming. Sensing fear now in her opponent, Kylen had pressed her advantage.

Kylen had not raised a hand to her sister. Hitting your brothers or sisters had always been a forbidden and heavily punished act in the household. Such behavior would not ever be tolerated at Ridge Farm, and some training could not be overridden. But before anyone had known what was happening, Kylen had literally backed the smaller Eithne into a corner. Rather than meeting Eithne's famous heat and volume, Kylen had been unnaturally pale and extraordinarily quiet. The potential violence - the ability to do violence - under the controlled surface had been a terrifying realization for the witnesses and the participants. Kylen had given a warning to her frozen sister. "Don't let your mouth write checks that your body isn't prepared to cash." No one but Kylen had a clue as to where that little bit of poison had come from. It had been an ugly moment that was broken only when Allston slammed his schoolbooks against the kitchen table.

The incident had reinforced Kylen's decision to leave the farm - to come down to Washington. She had angers and fears and serious work to do on herself. The loss of the Tellus colonial mission had deeply scarred her family, and Kylen didn't want to risk further damage - of poisoning them all with her issues. Now, she was facing her sister again - attempting to reconnect.

"You don't think it's too sophisticated?" Kylen asked. The dress was not in the least revealing in a conventional sense and had no ornamentation, but the cut was severe - tailored and fitted. The impact of the garment was its material and its color. Real silk and a deep rich purple-blue. It had a suggestion of silvery sheen when the light hit it just right. It had made Kylen think of New England in the summer. The color of blueberries when she and Eithne plucked them off the bushes in August, enduring the stickers and scratches for the sweet reward. 

"No, no, no. The dress is great," Eithne urged. "Now look in the mirror and take off one piece of jewelry. I don't care what, but something has to go."

Kylen did as she was commanded. She removed her bracelet and stood back from the camera, turning so that Eithne could give her the final word.

"That's it. Perfect," Eithne actually smiled at her sister. "Let Bridee wear the bracelet to the concert. It will make her feel grown up," she pronounced with the tone reminiscent of a grandmother. "I still have the feeling you are going into the lion's den, Kylen, but you look fabulous," she said. "Thanks for calling, but then you know that I am the arbiter of style," Eithne joked.

Kylen had to laugh. Nerves were still tender. This was going to take a while to smooth over, but it was a start.

"Love you. Bye bye."

**************

At 1835 McQueen called up from the lobby. Bridee had read about this Evening Dress Uniform in the papers Kylen had received from Captain Armstrong and had to see it to believe it. She accompanied Kylen down to the lobby with her camera.

When the elevator doors opened, Bridee gave an immediate little gasp. "Kylen, look. He is wearing a cape. He looks like a prince in a movie," she whispered.

"Hush," Kylen hissed and took her sister's arm, propelling her out of the elevator before the doors closed on them. But it was true. Six was standing there in a full-length cape. Amy hadn't prepared her for this.

As a commissioned officer it was mandatory that McQueen have an Evening Dress uniform. Even though he would never admit it unless pressed, he did rather like the uniform, and it was far and away the most money he had ever laid out for any clothing. A major expense, especially for something worn so seldom. The traditional Marine Corps boatcloak was optional. Worn only with Dress blues or Evening Dress attire, the cloak - like the sword - was a throwback to the Napoleonic era. McQueen had never been able to justify the purchase of 

one for himself. They were costly in the extreme. Captain Armstrong had delivered this to his quarters at Henderson Hall last night.

"I didn't know if you had a cloak with you, Sir, but if you don't I can make this available to you for the length of your visit."

McQueen had had no idea that things like this were ever done. Marines were supposed to show up with the required gear in hand, and the cloak was not required. His unspoken question must have shown on his face.

"Part of my duty, as I see it, Colonel, is to see not only that things progress smoothly, but that people are made as comfortable as possible with protocol," Captain Armstrong had explained. "I'm a Marine and trained to improvise. With the War on we found that some bits and pieces of uniforms could get worn or lost in transit. So several of us have put together a few things to have on hand just in case. We can't lend anyone a full uniform, Sir, but gloves, covers, a sword and this cloak ... We can help." 

Colonel McQueen's feelings about Captain Armstrong had changed at that moment. She went from being an officious, irritating little protocol ramrod to being HIS little protocol ramrod.

"Thank you, Captain," he had said honestly. "Waistcoat or cummerbund?" he asked, holding the items up.

"Waistcoat I think, Colonel. After all, you are one of the guests of honor," she had said. "And tomorrow evening, in honor of the Ambassador from Finland, you may - and probably should - wear the White Rose decoration on its ribbon, rather than the miniature."

So now McQueen stood before the Celina sisters - white gloves, white waistcoat, White Rose of Finland at his neck, white cover tucked under his arm - topped off with the boatcloak of a Marine Corps officer. They thought he looked spectacular.

Bridee whipped out the camera and went to work.

"Bridgid, this isn't the senior prom," Kylen remonstrated.

"But it is special," Bridee replied. She was finished anyway. "Look at the tiny medals," she said, tentatively touching the miniatures on McQueen's chest. "Where is your sword?"

"We have to leave," McQueen said, his impatience now showing. This was yet another situation that he was having trouble controlling. He was getting sick and tired of reacting — not acting. "The driver is waiting." He accepted Bridee's kiss on his cheek and escorted Kylen through the doors to the car.

Footnote: An illustration of a field grade officer in Evening Dress with boatcloak can be viewed at http://www.tecom.usmc.mil/mcub/library/images/URFigs/Fig2-1.gif


	6. Six

(Six)

Center House, Marine Barracks

Eighth and I

Washington, DC,

USA

1900

At 1900 promptly, McQueen and Kylen arrived at Center House, Eighth and I: The appointed time, in the appointed dress, with the appointed gear. A corporal saw to her coat, his cover and cloak, and they were shown into the anteroom for introductions, cocktails and conversation. Kylen was pleased to see some familiar faces: General Weirick and the Commandant, both of whom she had met in November. Major Howard was present, and Kylen caught a glimpse of Captain Armstrong standing on the sidelines.

"_One to read my reactions and one to make sure I toe the line,"_ Kylen thought with wry amusement.

General Radford crossed the floor to greet them. As the junior officer it fell to McQueen to make the unneeded introductions.

"Good evening, General Radford," he said, taking the general's proffered hand. "Of course you know Ms. Celina." 

"Good evening, Colonel McQueen. Yesterday was a fine day for the Corps." Turning to Kylen the general spoke in an easy tone. "Yes, it is always a pleasure to see Ms. Celina. I see that New England has agreed with you. You look terrific, Kylen. But we could have given you a tan in Arizona. Come, let me introduce you to the Ambassador. Colonel McQueen, come along and 'make your number' as well." 

Radford led them toward the Ambassador. Kylen felt self-conscious, but thought: "_I'm going to have to learn to swim in these waters soon enough. No time like the present, I guess."_

"General Radford, are Martin and your sister here this evening? " she asked, holding out a hope that there would be another real friend to buffer the evening.

"No," he said. "We thought that this might be a bit much for Martin. He and Dawntreader are attending the concert at the Kennedy Center. They have seats close to your family."

"_Radford, Howard and who knows who else know the color of my underwear. I shouldn't be surprised that he knows what my family is doing tonight."_ Kylen looked around the room and did not see anyone else from either the Tellus or Vesta missions. "_I guess - as well as being the new kid on the block and company for Six - I'm this evening's trophy'survivor. Try and look heroic, Kylen," _she told herself. "_Maybe I shouldn't have gotten the manicure. Too bad for them I don't look more like a victim." _She was immediately ashamed of her cynicism.

Heikki Virtanen, the Honorable Ambassador from the Republic of Finland, and his wife were standing with Lieutenant General Becca Green, the Deputy Chief of Marine Corps Aviation. Her title was misleading: Deputy Chief did not imply that there was a more senior Chief of Aviation. Her title said that she was a deputy to the Commandant, and that she was THE head honcho for USMC aviation. 

General Green had become something of an institution in the Corps. She had come into the officer corps out of Annapolis, but it didn't make her one of the good old boys. She had gotten into the academy the hard way - after putting in four years as a grunt. She had been in well over her thirty years. If it hadn't been for the War, Green would have been in the Outer Banks fishing off of the piers and hang-gliding off of Jockey Ridge. It had been her plan to retire this year, but plans change. 

Years ago her brother officers had called Lieutenant Colonel - and then Colonel Becca Green - 'Sister Mary Zelda Zoomie' or 'Mommy Dearest' behind her back. It had bothered her briefly, but had not changed the way she did business. After she had become General Becca Green they called her 'Becca Boyington' or 'Mom' - the terms were of affection and respect. Becca rather liked those. There were worse things than being compared to the legendary commander of The Black Sheep Squadron, and she was actually a grandmother. She got a kick out of the fact that none of her brother officers knew that her husband, who was not in the military, called her 'Cookie._' "Wouldn't they all just love that."_

General Radford made his introductions. "Mr. Ambassador, Mrs. Virtanen, General Green, may I present Ms. Kylen Celina. Ms. Celina has been in the process of briefing us on her time spent off planet these last two years."

Kylen was under no illusions that General Green, at least, knew exactly where she had been and what she had been doing, and on what subject she had been briefing Marine Intelligence. The Ambassador may or may not have been out of the loop. Time will tell_. "I've just been shown an example of plausible deniability_," she thought_. "How to tell and not tell."_ Kylen also felt that General Radford's wording was probably the nicest way that anyone could describe her life. She smiled honestly and warmly. Then she spoke.

"This is an honor, Ambassador. My fiancé is a member of the Fifty-eighth Squadron. In his letters to his parents he told of his friendship with and admiration of the Finnish Twenty-third Squadron. We deeply regret their loss, Sir, and will never forget their bravery. Nathan described it as something called 'sisu.' Perhaps the Ambassador would be kind enough to favor me with a better explanation of that term?"

Generals Radford and Green noted how effortlessly Kylen had changed the topic of conversation, shifting it off of herself and onto another subject entirely. McQueen, who had been the victim of what he thought of as a 'Kylen maneuver,' was used to it. Radford was extremely satisfied. Green's estimation of Kylen went up, and she was sorry now that she would not be seated on Kylen's right during dinner. The young woman could perhaps offer a shortcut.

Before the Ambassador could answer, General Green spoke: "Ambassador, I would have trouble explaining that, but I do know sisu when I see it," she said, looking indulgently at Kylen. The Ambassador, Radford and McQueen broke into polite and expected laughter. General Green continued: "If you will excuse Colonel McQueen and me for just a moment? There is something we need to attend to before dinner. Your Excellency. Mrs. Virtanen. General." With that she steered Colonel McQueen away while Heikki Virtanen attempted to define a Finnish term that has no direct translation.

"Sisu is that quality that makes our nation unique. It is a combination of courage, intelligence and the determination to get things done in the face of impractical or even impossible odds. But it is more than that. You must remember that in Finland we will bake in a sauna at 185 degrees and then run outside and roll in the snow. This is for us entertainment. This is part of sisu...."

The Ambassador's explanation faded into the background as Green and McQueen walked out of earshot. They had reached the seating diagram. General Green touched the chart with her finger. McQueen saw that the Ambassador was seated on the Commandant's right and Kylen on his left - the guests of honor. He then saw that he was seated between the ambassador's wife and General Radford - across from General Weirick, the Supreme Commander of American Forces who was seated next to Kylen. In short he really was a guest of honor. Armstrong hadn't been kidding. It was a nightmare for a person who did not enjoy being in the spotlight.

"Kylen Celina is an interesting young woman," Green remarked almost too casually, hoping to play the shortcut.

"She is a survivor, Ma'am," McQueen replied, as if that should be explanation enough.

"And you have known her...?" the general left the question hanging in the air.

"Since the evacuation, Ma'am."

"Tell me, Colonel, in your estimation, does she have the brains to match her balls?"

McQueen choked on her question and was forced to spit the wine he had been sipping back into his glass.

The question had been asked in order to establish a different and more personal level of communication between the general and one of her men. A joke. General Green had read up on McQueen - everything she could get her hands on. It had been an idle question actually - she knew the answer. She knew from his reputation that T.C. McQueen would not waste his time being chivalrous to a bimbo - no matter what the connection. And she also knew he had a reputation for irony and a rather sardonic wit. No. The question had not been an idle one so much as it had been a calculated risk. Time was short. She needed to establish a connection to one of her 'kids' quickly. She needed to get to know T.C. McQueen fast.

McQueen was a Marine and belonged to the Corps, but he was also an aviator - one of the most talented -and that made him HER Marine. General Becca Green was known to jealously watch over her brood. She made sure that her talented officers were brought along and given challenges just outside their grasp. She liked to see them stretched, and hated to see them fail. General Green got the job done. She was still not sure where it was best to place this Marine aviator, but she didn't want anyone else to steal him away from her command - not without her approval.

Returning the general's gaze, McQueen could see that she was not being insulting. He got the joke. He gave an honest chuckle this time, giving her a tolerant smile. "That's a toss up, General. She does have big brass ones, but she is extremely bright and learns quickly." He paused for a moment. "She is in an untenable position," he explained.

"Aren't we all, Colonel. Aren't we all, " the general said, with an irony that could not be missed. "Ah, well, we can speak more after dinner. We have things to discuss. Go retrieve Celina and then make your number to the Commandant and General Weirick. You had also better check in with our efficient little Captain Armstrong before they begin escorting people into the dining hall. She looks like she is about to pee her pants over there." The general gestured in the direction of McQueen's protocol wizard as she moved off to do the 'Meet and Greet.' 

__

"Why do I feel that the general had somehow just described an obstacle course? Sodom on the Potomac. I don't like Washington and that is a fact." Colonel McQueen moved out to fetch Kylen.


	7. Seven

(Seven)

09 January 2065

Center House

Washington DC, USA

2100

Offering toasts after dinner is an extraordinarily formal part of Mess Night. Certain toasts are expected in a rigid order. Toasts of protocol are followed by official toasts, which are followed by the traditional toast; finally personal toasts are offered. It is the way things are done. Tradition is followed, and national anthems are played. It can seem to go on for quite some time. 

This evening the Commandant was seated at the head of the long table, acting as the president of the mess. General Green was seated at the opposite end of the table, which was decked in fine linen, crystal and all the regimental silver. Marines had learned centuries earlier to embrace creature comforts whenever they presented themselves - the Corps would give them more than enough opportunities to be miserable. General Green was acting as the vice-president of the mess and the host. The evening had been her idea, and she was nominally in charge of the events. All toasts began with an address to her.

The Commandant stood and offered a toast to the president of Finland and - by extension - to the Ambassador. The entire party stood, and the chamber orchestra played "Finlandia." After three or four minutes the Ambassador offered a toast to the President of the United States. Again everyone stood for the playing of the "Star-Spangled Banner." There were no official toasts to offer - no members of the government or another branch of the service had been invited. This was a private night. The Commandant, in his role as mess president, offered the traditional toast:

"General Green, to Corps and Country."

General Green stood, and in a clear, well-trained voice gave the traditional response - the words having been read from a poster dating from the Revolutionary War. 

"Long live the United States, and success to the Marines!" 

After a few minutes of conversation the Commandant again stood and then offered a toast to Lieutenant Paul Wang, recipient of the Medal of Honor. Someone to whom Kylen had not yet been introduced offered a toast to General Wierick and the victory of Ixion. General Wierick offered a toast to Colonel McQueen. General Oliver Radford offered a toast to the Tellus and Vesta Colonists. The pauses that had come between all the toasts began to stretch out, and everyone expected the coffee to be served momentarily. But Kylen, rather timidly, touched the Commandant's arm, and whispered something to him. He nodded his acquiescence, and Kylen stood. 

"General Green," she said, having picked up the proper form. "Honored guests, ladies and gentlemen, I offer a toast on behalf of the survivors of the colonial missions. I wish to give you the Fifty-eighth Squadron, the Wildcards, and also the Fifty-ninth, the Ready Reserve, who cleared the path home for us. I now understand that any and all Marines would have given their best to save us. In this case, however, it wasn't just any Marine: It was the men and women of these two squadrons." She raised her glass. "To the Fifty-eighth and the Fifty-ninth."

The company raised their glasses. Radford's little find had surprised most of them.

When everyone had put down their glasses, McQueen further surprised the group by standing, glass in hand. With a voice rich in dignity, he addressed the assembly.

"General Green, honored guests, ladies and gentlemen. We have recalled the glory and sacrifice of Ixion. I ask you now to stand with me in a moment of silence. Let us remember the victory and the sacrifice of Demios."

There was a good five seconds of silence before anyone stood. Kylen was aware that McQueen had just done something that shocked almost everyone assembled, but she had no idea what it was. She noted that people stood carefully so their chairs would not make noise. After they were all standing, McQueen waited a full thirty seconds in silence before solemnly intoning: "Our honored dead."

"Our honored dead," the crowd responded. After a couple of seconds McQueen sat and everyone else, one by one, followed his lead. Few people could believe that he had done it. Not that the toast wasn't the right thing to do: It was just that no one could quite believe that he had actually offered such a toast in front of Wierick. 

Demios had almost been a disaster - another Guadalcanal. Intelligence had been faulty and people had screwed up. The fleet had been caught with its pants down and had been forced to withdraw. Troops had been left on the planet with no reinforcements, aircover, or backup. The withdrawal had been to Ixion - true - a spectacular surprise to the enemy and a fantastic victory. But the loss of life at Demios had been staggering. The victory there had not been achieved by brilliance of tactics or of leadership. It had been achieved by a handful of soldiers and Marines with a dogged unwillingness to die. Most people preferred to forget that the esteemed architect of Ixion, General Wierick, was also the architect of Demios, which, but for those few men and women on planet, could well have been a defeat beyond the definition of humiliation.

About half of the table was thinking that this Colonel, who was unknown to them, had really stuck his foot in it. The thought struck about half of that half, with a tinge of regret, that the man had just shot his promising career in the foot. About a third of the rest were smirking to themselves - the tank would go no farther in the Corps, having just buried himself up to his nippled neck in Chig guano. What only about a half-dozen people knew was that McQueen had been at Wierick's side for both battles. What even fewer people knew was that there had only been seven men in the room when the decision had been made to pull out of Demios and move on Ixion, and that McQueen had been one of those seven men. What even those people did not know was that only two people had agreed with Wierick and that one of those two had been the man who had just offered the toast, McQueen. And what only two men seated at the table knew was what the decision had cost them both personally: Only Wierick and McQueen knew how bitterly the decision had been accepted. Only they knew how often they had seen one another prowling the passageways of the Saratoga, each lost in his own thoughts. Things had passed between them that even Commodore Ross knew nothing about. Only they remembered sitting together in silence on the observation deck, watching the stars shoot by as the fleet made its way back to Demios. It was a bond that the two men shared. The crushing weight of command had been felt even more keenly by Wierick. It had been a suffocating - if clear - decision. A decision that could have been soul destroying. It was a bond that they shared. Both men knew that if they had it all to do over, they would do it again.

Most people mistakenly thought of Wierick as a hard-charging, devil-take-the-hindmost, Patton type. Most people did not realize that he was cut from the more personally involved and devoted Schwarzkopf mold. Far from being insulted, General Wierick was grateful to McQueen. The Colonel had said things to which the General could not give voice. Wierick had never been able to publicly voice his feelings about Demios. He had never been able to put his overwhelming emotions into words. The respect that he had - the love that he felt - for those grunts who had held the planet for him. Those men and women who had refused to give up. They had given him courage to continue the fight at Ixion when he had thought they were again facing defeat. They had inspired him. They had inspired the entire fleet. Wierick felt deep in his heart that the victory at Ixion was the direct result of the actions of a handful of Marines on Demios. They had retaken the airfield on Demios, and that had saved the fleet at Ixion. They had the right to claim victory. Wierick reached across the table to shake McQueen's hand.

About half of the table thought Wierick to be extremely gracious and forgiving. About a quarter of the table thought that Wierick had just counted coupe against McQueen, who he would bust down to at least major at the first opportunity. A handful of people thought that Wierick had finally snapped under the strain of the last few months. About a half-dozen reflected on the remarkable brotherhood they shared as members of the Marine Corps. Two men shared each other's grief.

The toasts were clearly finished, and coffee was then served. Conversations restarted and became more relaxed. After about fifteen minutes, the Commandant dismissed the party: "Ladies and Gentlemen, will you join me in the bar?" With that time-honored phrase, the formal part of the evening came to an end. The atmosphere almost immediately changed. 

Kylen was about to be introduced to one of the many paradoxes on which the Marine Corps is built:

speaking one's mind versus immediate obedience

risking failure versus a need to succeed

clearly defined plans versus quick-thinking improvisation

analyzing versus acting

the expectation that people can act independently versus everything for the team

the tried and true versus the creative

Tonight's lesson was straight out of the mouth of former Commandant John A. Lejeune.

"On social occasions the formality of strictly military occasions should be relaxed, and a spirit of friendliness and good will should prevail.....We are all members of the same great family."

After the very formal dinner and the even more formal ceremony of offering toasts, Mess Night always continues with drinks at the bar.' A peculiar switch occurs. The air of informality that follows carries with it a sense that people were almost "getting away with something." The feeling that the air has been let out of the balloon.

Kylen and McQueen left the dining hall together and were almost immediately joined by General Green. "Come with me, children," she said, as she walked past them on her way to join Captain Armstrong, who was standing against the wall. They obeyed.

"I love these nights," the General admitted to her charges. "We haven't done this in quite some time. And you." She pointed at Kylen, but the General was smiling openly - clearly amused. "You are a surprise. Did Ollie tell you to offer that toast?" 

It had been a surprise that Kylen had stood to offer a toast. To have it be for the 5-8 did stand to reason: General Green had been given to understand that the girl had connections there. But to be aware enough - mature enough - to include the other rescue squadron in the toast? It showed considerable aplomb, as well as insight into the assembly's sensibilities.

"No, Ma'am. Captain Armstrong had reviewed the order of business and it seemed to me that not only was I allowed to offer a toast, but that, as a guest of honor, it was sort of expected. I felt that it needed to be said, and I realized that Colonel McQueen really couldn't say it without sounding self-congratulatory. I'm sorry, General Green, but I couldn't catch your eye. I did receive permission from the Commandant before I stood." _"Three-star General Green just referred to Four-star General Radford as 'Ollie,'"_ Kylen realized with a start.

Green had actually been quite taken with Kylen's gesture. The General found her intriguing. She smiled again and patted the young woman's shoulder. "And speaking of standing ... Colonel, your hand." McQueen offered his hand, and the General used it to steady her balance while she hoisted her long skirt and stood on a chair. Becca Green turned into the renowned General Green in front of Kylen's eyes. Even though she was standing incongruously on a chair, the woman exuded confidence and undisputed leadership. The General spoke in her command voice. There was music and conversations, but no one in the room had any difficulty hearing what she had to say.

"Attention, Ladies and Gentlemen. It is not, I believe, as he would have preferred. I imagine he would rather be on the Saratoga. But please, let us take this opportunity to "wet down" T.C. McQueen's promotion. Well-deserved, Colonel." She held out her hand to McQueen. He was self-conscious, and was terrified that she would pull him up on the chair next to her. Terrified that she would expect him to say a few words. He swallowed hard and felt his brain go into overdrive to come up with something appropriate to say. He took her hand.

General Green looked down into his face and read his reaction. "No. Don't worry," she said quietly. "I'm not going to make you say anything." General Green stepped off of the chair. "Well, that ought to get things rolling. Thank you, Colonel. Captain Armstrong, I know that you have seen to the necessities."

"Ma'am, the cigars and the candy are behind the bar," Armstrong replied.

"You heard her, Colonel. Go forth and be magnanimous. We can get more, if needed."

McQueen hesitated. It was true that since it was his promotion that was being "wet down" he should pass out cigars and candy, but he really didn't like doing it. It made him feel vaguely foolish. He debated about leaving Kylen alone in this crowd, but was forced to remind himself: _"She is going to be working with at least four of these people in a couple of weeks. That's undoubtedly part of the reason that she is here. I'm not going to be around. She has to learn. I can debrief her later."_ He turned on his heel and left the two women. Angela Armstrong trailed after him.

"Cigars? Candy?" Kylen asked.

"The officer promoted always passes them out," Becca explained.

"Cigars? Wait. It's tradition right?" Kylen asked with a smile.

"I have quite a collection," Green admitted. "Some people collect shells. Some people collect stamps, or pens, or postcards ... whatever. Almost everyone collects something. I collect meaningful cigars."

Kylen was half-tempted to ask if the general had a special case for her collection, but decided against it. "Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar?" she asked, only half in jest.

General Green caught the lob - the oft used quote from Freud - and expressed her amusement openly. "Yes, indeed. I don't save every one, but there are meaningful cigars."

"And tonight's?" Kylen asked.

"Oh, I think it could be very meaningful. The Colonel is on track."

"Is he where he should be?" Kylen asked quietly, almost to herself. _"Let the general ignore the loaded question it if she wants to,"_ she thought. 

"Where he should be?" Green picked up the bait. She wasn't caught unaware, but rather she was curious to see where the thread would lead.

"General, may I ask you a frank - and probably impolitic - question?" Kylen asked directly. 

"Oh, I love impolitic questions."

"I meant in his career. Has the Colonel come as far as he deserves?"

"You are asking me if he has been the victim of discrimination." The general paused. There was nothing to lose by being forthcoming, and probably much more to gain. "He was in the InVitro platoons. That is a bit of history that no one is particularly proud of. And he has probably had to do more - to prove himself more - I'm afraid to say. Why? Has he expressed this feeling to you?"

"No, oh no. But I know that members of the Fifty-eighth have wondered why he isn't a general. They feel he might not have been promoted as he should have been."

General Green gave a small cough. "Rumor has it that you cut to the chase," she said to Kylen. _"I wonder how much truth there is in the rest of the rumors?"_

Kylen needed and very much wanted her job as an analyst in Marine Intelligence, but she hadn't been selected for the colonial program because she was a shrinking violet. She spoke with a shaded tone of voice - it could be a question - it could be an apology or an acquiescence. "Ma'am," was all she said. _"Let the general decide how she wants to answer."_

"Yes, and no. It is the best answer I can give you." 

Becca Green silently reviewed the history she had so recently been studying. _"Colonel McQueen is a mustang - an officer up from the ranks. As an enlisted man he had a rather checkered course for his first four years. A court-martial that could have easily resulted in his execution - saved only because he had done the right thing, and executing him would have raised too many questions. One battlefield promotion that he had_ _lost - being busted back one stripe - for again doing the right thing and pissing people off. The man had had no political savvy, but uncanny judgment. McQueen had busted his chops and regained his rank. And when, again with another battlefield commission, he had finally won his butter bars - he had held on tight."_

There was a world of information that Becca could give Kylen, but she had second thoughts. Frankly, it was none of the young woman's business_. "Ask him yourself,"_ she thought.

Usually the orchestra was dismissed after dinner and a drink with the president of the mess, but tonight they had been asked to stay. The Finnish Ambassador and his wife were both fine musicians, and the Marine Corps had a music department of which it was deservedly proud. The orchestra began to play. General Green whipped around to survey the scene.

"Now I wonder just who requested that they play that?" she asked. _"I doubt it was McQueen. It was probably Brad Wierick, or maybe even Armstrong. Our uptight little Captain seems to have taken a shine to McQueen."_

"What is it?" Kylen asked.

"It's a song that the 127th claimed as their own years ago - long before McQueen was a member. An old song by John Prine. Angel From Montgomery.' Mobile is closer to Loxley than Montgomery, but the song belongs to the 127th. The Angry Angels.

"It sounds like such a sad song."

"It is and it isn't," Becca said softly, almost to herself and then turned to regard the young woman beside her. "You expected fighter pilots to choose rock and roll - balls-to-the-walls, love 'em and leave 'em, didn't you?"

"Yes, I guess that I would have," Kylen admitted.

"For all their bravado, fighter pilots are, by and large, a rather romantic group of individuals - or rather they have a romantic view of their place in the scheme of things."

Kylen made a little noise in her throat.

"What?" Green asked.

Kylen leaned in, almost whispering to the general. Obviously she was sharing something of personal importance with the older woman. "My sister once asked me if I thought that Colonel McQueen had ever read any of the Bronte novels. He seemed to her to be so brooding. I told her that I hoped not - that I thought he already had a surprisingly romantic view of his place in the cosmos."

Becca Green stood transfixed by Kylen's little confession. Several members of the crowd started to sing the song. It was a slow, rather sad tune that was filled with regret, but also had a strange air of defiance. The crowd sang it with feeling. It had been a while since Green had heard it and a while since she had heard it sung so honestly.

"Make me an angel that flies from Montgomery.

Make me a poster of an old rodeo.

Just give me one thing that I can hold onto.

To believe in this livin' is just a hard way to go."

General Becca Green decided at that moment to change her position. She would share at least some - but only some - of what she knew about McQueen's career with this young woman. "_Hell, in a couple weeks, if she really wants to know - if she wants to risk betraying his trust - she'll probably have access to McQueen's records anyway."_

The singing continued around the two women.

"I am an old woman. Named after my mother,

My old man is another child who's grown old.

If dreams were thunder and lightnin' was desire,

This old house would have burned down a long time ago."

"Generally speaking, Kylen, it takes about fifteen years for an officer to move up through the ranks to full colonel. There are rare exceptions. Sometimes a scientist or someone with special skills will come in at advanced rank, but it is rare. In wartime things move more rapidly. McQueen got his first commission to second lieutenant only nine years ago. Would he be a brigadier if he was a natural-born? Not impossible, but highly unlikely. Only one in sixteen colonels will ever move up to brigadier. I don't know if he feels that he has been passed over for promotion, but I've seen his records - he hasn't. No, that type of prejudice would be too blatant." "_He just had to do it in the most difficult ways possible. That's all."_ She paused and listened to the chorus of the song.

"Make me an angel that flies from Montgomery.

Make me a poster of an old rodeo.

Just give me one thing that I can hold onto.

To believe in this livin' is just a hard way to go."

Green again spoke to Kylen. "In the Marine Corps, officers move along a career path. We move around and have different postings. We attend different classes and can attend different schools to further our careers. There are certain billets and schools that can put a person on the "fast track."

"When I was a young girl, I had me a cowboy.

Weren't much to look at just a free, ramblin' man.

Well, that was a long time but no matter how hard I try,

The years just flow by like a broken down dam."

"I have to admit that I noticed that your friend did not have a lot of luck in getting billets or schooling that he requested - that he was qualified for_." "More than qualified for. It is an embarrassment to the Corps."_ McQueen had been granted far fewer of his requests than was normal. It was obvious discrimination. It made Green sick to think of the time and opportunities that had been wasted. It was also obvious to her that, while McQueen seemed to have had one or two mentors along the way, no one had really focused his intellect along the career path. No one had appeared to work with him on what billets to request and in what order he should go after them. McQueen had always been exceptionally good at any assigned job. He performed. He won medals. He always made his C.O.s look good. It had been in their own best interests to keep him around for as long as they could.

"Make me an angel that flies from Montgomery.

Make me a poster of an old rodeo.

Just give me one thing that I can hold onto.

To believe in this livin' is just a hard way to go."

"Who makes these decisions?" Kylen asked. Clearly her temper was rising.

"The monitors," Green answered.

"The monitors!" Kylen almost choked. "Well, isn't that an unfortunate little choice of terms," she spat.

"They have been called 'monitors' for centuries. Long before the InVitros were ever even thought of. But I do take your point It is a rotated billet. Being a monitor is a part of a fast-track career."

"And McQueen, of course, was never a 'monitor.' It also could be a way of knocking out your competition, couldn't it?"

"That is one of the reasons why the position is rotated," Green said. 

"There's flies in the kitchen. I can hear their buzzin'.

And I ain't done nothin' since I woke up today.

How the hell can a person go to work in the morning, 

And come home in the evening and have nothing to say?" 

Kylen looked around the room with new understanding - with new eyes. "And you invited him here tonight? With these people? How many would love to see him fail?"

"A few wouldn't shed any tears," Green admitted. "But he has more champions here than you realize. And, I am sure, far more than _he _realizes. No one was ordered to sing this song, Kylen. Your friend may - and I certainly do hope that he does - think it is a kind gesture. But there is more behind it than that." _"T.C. McQueen has just been very publicly dropped into the fast track." _

"Make me an angel that flies from Montgomery.

Make me a poster of an old rodeo.

Just give me one thing that I can hold onto.

To believe in this livin' is just a hard way to go."

"General Wierick appears to think highly of the Colonel," Kylen observed.

"Oh, Bradford? Yes, yes, he is an honest fan of our McQueen," the general said_. "And Bradford is my competition,"_ she thought. _"We both have plans for your Colonel, Kylen. I'm disappointed to say that I think Brad is going to win this one, but not without some concessions and not without some safeguards."_ She would get what she wanted out of young Bradford, which was how she often still thought of the four-star general, who had actually served for a short time as a member of her staff. Far from being jealous, Becca Green took enormous pride that former members of her staff, aviators or no, seemed to move ahead gracefully in their careers. Besides, she wouldn't want Wierick's job. Not on your life.

The strains of 'Angel From Montgomery' faded away and the orchestra started a different tune. McQueen had finished passing out the cigars and began to cross the room toward the two women. 

General Green's mind raced as she watched his approach. _"Kylen hasn't picked up on it yet, but have you? Do you feel it, T.C.? Do you feel the bidding war going on around you? Are you be flattered? Or, more likely, does it piss you off? Do you feel, as a former slave, like you were on an auction block, stripped naked - all of us circling you, determining your relative worth to us? Checking your teeth - testing your muscle tone - 'Turn your head and cough, Boy.' I honestly don't think you have any idea. You are almost too self-effacing for your own good, Colonel T.C. McQueen." _

McQueen reached the women. General Green nodded a greeting to him, but spoke to Kylen. "Ah yes, ... General Wierick. Well you know what they say, my dear: "The measure of another man's intelligence is the extent to which he agrees with you." _"And because they often do agree: When McQueen does finally disagree with Brad - and I'm sure he will - Brad will_ _listen. Yes, Bradford, the brat probably does need McQueen more than I do," _mused Green.

"Nietzsche," said Kylen.

"I beg your pardon," said Green, not immediately following Kylen's train of thought.

"No, it's Mark Twain," McQueen said to Kylen. Both were trying to place the author of the quote Green had given.

"Do you think? I'm not really sure," Kylen said to him.

McQueen shrugged. He wasn't willing to bet on it either. "It's what I thought."

General Green was confused to be left so totally excluded from their conversation. It was unsettling. She determined to regain control, and addressed McQueen.

"Where is my cigar?"

"Captain Armstrong told me to save one for you," he said, patting the inside pocket of his jacket.

"Well, all seems to be forgiven for your rubbing a few noses in it," General Green noted, scanning the room, and then she trained the full weight of her gaze on McQueen. "You thought some of the guests were just a little too self-satisfied, did you?"

Kylen was a bit jolted by the change in the conversation. She had momentarily forgotten just who General Green was. Kylen had the dreadful feeling that she was overhearing something that she had no place in hearing, but something that the general wanted her to hear - or rather that the general wanted to have McQueen know that Kylen had heard. It was a not too subtle chastisement. Kylen had the feeling that she was suddenly sinking underwater - deep water - and she could think of no graceful way out of the situation.

McQueen was silent. Becca Green circled an arm through one of his. The act of familiarity softened her message to the Colonel. "It is a useful function. One that is needed on occasion, but I caution you on attempting to build the rest of your career on your skill in acting the Roman slave." 

McQueen stiffened. Kylen stood paralyzed, with her mouth slightly open - wanting to say something, but too shocked to speak. It was beyond her comprehension that the general had called an emancipated InVitro a 'slave.' She saw the muscle in McQueen's jaw begin to twitch, and she saw his eyes narrow. 

"General, I am no one's slave," he whispered tersely.

"Of course you are no one's slave," Green said as she gave his arm a little shake. "You just heard what you have been waiting to hear all evening, didn't you? An insult - open or veiled ... you have been waiting for it, haven't you? It is true that you will, unfortunately, have to steel yourself against them for the rest of your life. I'm sorry to say that I don't believe they will ever disappear entirely. I just decided that I would get it out of the way for you so that you would be able to concentrate on other things. And you are now thinking that I was testing you - and you are correct. I apologize to you and to our guest here," she said, taking Kylen's hand. "Forgive me, T.C.," she said, using his common nickname with its implied intimacy. "It was a seventy-percent solution to one of my problems." 

There were a few moments of silence. Kylen could see that McQueen was processing the general's statement. 

Green allowed her explanation to sink in_. "He doesn't have to like it. But it is the truth and I need him to believe it. Sorry, young man, but I don't have a lot of time for the pleasantries,"_ she thought.

McQueen directed his attention to Kylen. He had been able to calm himself, and spoke in their accustomed hushed tone of voice. "I don't know what the general felt was her problem. But what General Green means is that it is often better to decide quickly on an imperfect plan than to spend the time required to develop a perfect plan that would come too late to be of any use. Marines call it the seventy-percent solution."

"Thank you, Colonel," said Green. "Now, before either of you come to think of me as being irretrievably lost ... the Roman slave. The Romans liked to name things, and there are entire books about their slaves and the names they had for them, but in all those books I have never found the name, term, or title for this slave. Perhaps, given the Roman sensibilities, it was a taboo. In any case, during a Roman Triumph - the parade for the hero - a slave stood behind the hero ..."

"A slave stood behind the hero ..." McQueen interrupted. The light had dawned. He understood the general's reference. "And whispered into his ear. 'Remember you are mortal. Glory is fleeting. Remember you are mortal.'"

"Precisely." General Green smiled up at him, and then turned to Kylen. "By reminding us all of Demios, the Colonel dumped a load of reality on what was in danger of becoming an orgy of 'who is better than we are.' As I said - necessary on occasion - but it does not endear one in the hearts of others. It is a skill - a spice - that one should use sparingly."

Becca Green cast her eyes around the room and found Major Howard, who she gestured over to her group. "Major, the Colonel and I have a few things to discuss. Please attend to Ms.Celina. After all, she is your coup, and you probably want to show her off."

She did not wait for a response - in the Corps a superior officer's request carries the weight of a command. She gave Kylen a smile and a little pat. With her arm still linked with McQueen's, she led him away.

("Angel From Montgomery" was written by John Prine. I give crdit where it is due. I am not attempting to copyright his work, nor am I attempting to use it for profit.")


	8. Eight

(Eight)

09 January 2065

Center House

Washington DC, 

USA

2150

"You look wonderful, Kylen. That color suits you," Major Howard remarked. "Your toast struck just the right note. You impressed a lot of people."

__

"I wasn't trying to impress anyone," she thought rather viciously, but after all those months in the dirt and grime it did feel nice to be complimented on her appearance. Amy had been right. In Washington even nice parties had agendas. Kylen surveyed the room. _"If there are people here gunning for Six - people who would love to see him fail - then there are probably people here that wouldn't mind watching me go down in flames as well," _she thought to herself_. "But I can't be that important, can I? Not important enough for people to waste that kind of energy on me." _

"Thank you, Major. Well, since I'm here at your behest, who haven't I met yet that you want me to get to know?" she asked, smiling warmly, but Major Howard did note a touch of irritation in her voice. 

__

"Now just what has Becca Boyington been telling you, I wonder?" he thought. General Green was known to stir the pot, and Howard really had hoped to add Kylen into the mix without too much agitation. It was often best to keep the small fish out of the same waters as the big predators - and Kylen was a small fish. Howard had been against inviting Kylen to the dinner, but Radford had liked the idea. "Introduce her around when people will be focused on something else." It had made a certain amount of sense, so here she was. McQueen had kicked things up a notch with his toast, and now Kylen was an afterthought rather than the center of attention. Radford had been right. It had been a good idea.

"Let me introduce you to General J.G. Ramirez. He's the C.O. at Quantico, and you will be spending time down there. And over there is Colonel Charlotte Westin: She's the ranking Marine up at DamNeck. You'll need to know her as well," Howard explained.

"DamNeck?" Kylen asked.

"South of here - Naval Intelligence. You'll get up close and personal."

__

"Well, the best defense is a good offense," Kylen thought. "Let's go," she said. Howard offered his arm and they moved out.

The bar was actually an alcove off of the main reception area. General Green led McQueen to a corner table. They were seated out of the way, but could still view most of the reception room. An aide appeared with a glass of wine for the General and a healthy dram of scotch for the Colonel. Green's staff had done their homework. 

Leaning back in her chair, Green gave her charge the once-over. "Well, Colonel McQueen, what do you think we should do with the 5-8 now?"

McQueen paused to consider before answering her. _"Just yesterday the squadron was given a Presidential Unit Citation. It's been all over the press. Papers are running the bios of all of the kids - even Hawkes. If the Top Brass was still gunning for them after the events on Anvil - the misguided act of compassion - they have kind of lost the edge. No, there is now too much evidence that the Alien Intelligence Unit has withheld vital information from Combat Command. The kids should have some breathing room - but only some."_

"Leave them where they are, Ma'am," he answered. 

"Your squadron has had spectacular success, but they have also taken some pretty heavy hits. The 5-8 is at the critical level. We have to decide whether to send in replacements - to reinforce - or to disband the unit and parcel them all out. Spread around that experience and success."

"Reinforce. Get the Squadron fully operational and then .... Then start to rotate the most senior team out. One or two at a time."

"Why not just do it now?"

The discussion was becoming uncomfortable - if not downright painful - for McQueen, but it was one of those things that as an officer he had come to expect. _"I just hadn't ... Hadn't what? ... Hadn't expected them to get transferred? It's not like I didn't know it would happen. All I can do is try to get them ready. Marines get rotated out."_

"Ma'am, there are pros and cons either way," he admitted. 

"Yes, that is always the issue. Do we always leave our most experienced men and women out in the field? Or do we bring them in and let them start to train the next wave? There is precedent for both schools of thought. The Germans lost the airwar over Europe not because they didn't have planes. Hell, they were up to their armpits in aircraft. They didn't have enough trained pilots. We have to balance our actions as long as we can." General Green could not tell if McQueen was getting the message_. "The man's face gives nothing away. He couldn't possibly need a bigger hint." _

She spoke again. "And the fact that they will hate being split up ... well, they have to learn to expect it. Besides, you've been around long enough to know that billets are frequently not what you expected. Are they? Look at you - X.O. of the Angry Angels. Next in line for command. And you got a command, didn't you? You got thrown a bunch of wet-behind-the-ears new kids straight out of Loxley. Not what you had in mind, was it? 

McQueen gave a small smile_. "The General knows her stuff. I had wanted my own command. I had wanted - had earned - the 127th."_

The General interrupted his thoughts. "You could have inherited the Angels - an enviable position. But people would have said just that: 'He inherited the best squadron in the Corps.' But today the 5-8 is one of our most prized - and you built it. No matter where you are or what you do - it will always be yours."

McQueen had thought about that. He had been dissatisfied when the Brass had given him the Fifty-eighth. He had thought it was a form of punishment after the 127 had been wiped out. Of all the assignments he had received since becoming an officer, the Fifty-eighth the one he had wanted the least. It had turned out to be probably the best gig he had ever had.

"Your key people, Colonel. Where would you counsel them to go next? What should they put in for?" She was able to keep a conversational tone to her voice - but only with real effort. "Your executive officer, for example."

"Vansen. She needs a few more months as an X.O," he said.

"What's her problem? Still having trouble taking the larger view?"

McQueen shook his head 'no.' "Paperwork," he said. "She will be ready soon. Sooner if she can get a good X.O. of her own."

"You've been grooming her?"

"It's an officer's job to groom his replacement," he responded. No more information was forthcoming.

__

"Come on, man. Work with me here," the General thought. 

The orchestra struck up a tango. It was unusual enough to attract the General's attention. She needed a break anyway - a moment to collect her thoughts. She needed to come up with a different tack. The man was giving her precious little to work with.

The Colonel also turned to look out into the reception area. Kylen was dancing. Shortly after their arrival McQueen had slotted her into a niche at the outer edges of his mind. She had offered her toast and Green had called them over together, but McQueen had decided to let her ride it out on her own. Now there she was being taught how to tango by no less than the Finnish Ambassador. The C.O. of the Finnish squadron on the Saratoga had told McQueen that the tango was a passion for many Finns - a national pastime. McQueen had thought the guy was joking_. "Great. Now I'll be expected to ask the man's wife to dance. Thanks a lot, Small Change. Make my night."_

__

"Sweet little metaphor," thought Green. _"We could dance around like this all night. It's time for the 'resolucion' - time to start the second part of the dance."_ Green refocused on McQueen.

"I'll cut to the chase, Colonel. What would you like to do now?

"I serve at the pleasure of the Corps and the President of the United States, Ma'am. I'll go where ordered."

"That's what is called 'answering-by-the-book,' my friend. I can look that one up all by myself, but then again, I have aides to look it up for me. We can do this the long way or the short way. I don't know about you, Colonel McQueen, but I don't have lots of time here"

Taking a deep breath to center himself, McQueen answered: "General Green, I seem to have nothing but time lately."

"Well, I hope that you have managed to enjoy some of it, Colonel, because it ain't gonna' last. Now, once again - What would you like to do now? Bearing in mind that I may, in fact, be the very goddess of Marine Corps aviation, and even I don't get everything I ask for. "

Never in his entire career had anyone asked McQueen what he wanted. It was a bit disorienting. He knew that he wanted to be back on the Saratoga. He also knew that more than likely it was out of the question. Truth be told, as much as he would like to, McQueen would have to think long and hard before he would reassign himself back to the Wildcards now. _"Damn, Green makes sense," _ he thought. 

The General was growing impatient, and she didn't wait for him to speak. "OK, so by the book, Colonel, tell me what is your weakest area," she said, adopting the tried and true interviewer's format.

McQueen always hated these questions. As far as he could tell they did nothing but tell you how much the interviewee squirmed when asked discomforting questions. He did not answer her - a least not in words. Instead he gestured to the room at large.

"Ah, interpersonal skills," the General remarked. "Luckily the Corps not only builds character - it loves characters. You will never be 'Hail-fellow-well-met McQueen,' but your leadership skills are just fine. We can work of the social skills. You know my next question." 

The General wanted McQueen's self-assessment of his own strong points.

"I'm a good tactician," was all he could bring himself to say.

"Finally," Green said, throwing her hands into the air. "Finally an honest answer. That damn lamp gets heavy after a while. 

"Lamp?" he asked

"I was beginning to feel like that eccentric old man - the one with the lamp? The one looking for an honest man."

"Diogenes." McQueen filled in the blank. "I know the feeling. I've been looking for most of my life," he muttered under his breath. 

Green had heard him, however_. "Then you have been looking in the wrong places_," Green thought_. "Ever tried a mirror? T.C. McQueen, I do believe you are my honest man." _

She spoke. "Compared to Diogenes, you are a master of social graces. He was allegedly an incredibly unpleasant individual. You don't sleep in a bathtub, do you? Or have any other strange habits I should know about?" Green asked.

"Ma'am?"

Becca Green looked him over again, and then chuckled. "Did you know that this unpleasant little old philosopher with the strange habits and a penchant for lighting fixtures was sold into slavery?" she asked rhetorically. "Let that be a lesson to all truth seekers, I guess. And do you know what Diogenes said in the slave market when the auctioneer asked him what it was that he did - what his skill was? He said: 'I can govern men, therefore sell me to someone who needs a master.' " "_McQueen would never say it out loud in a million years, but I'd love to hear those words come out of his mouth."_

She looked him straight in the eyes, and said softly: "They wanted to build warriors, but I don't think the IVA counted on anyone like you." Green gave him an almost motherly smile. Rather than feeling an insult, McQueen felt himself beginning to blush. He turned his face toward the reception area - toward the dance. Green followed his gaze, and watched Kylen for a while.

"She is an interesting young woman," Green repeated almost casually. Almost, but not quite.

"That's one way to put it," McQueen replied, almost, but not quite, as casually. "Did she tell you a story?"

Green was momentarily stunned. _"How did he know? How well does he know her?"_ Kylen had told her a story. It hadn't been the words themselves, but the way Kylen said them. Clear and striking pictures had appeared in the General's imagination. A sense of time and place. A feeling.

"Kylen tells stories?" General Green asked. The tenor of the question was not so subtly veiled. She was asking if Kylen lied.

Kylen had told McQueen that she had learned how to lie during her imprisonment. But she had never lied to him. She had in fact extracted from McQueen a promise: He would never lie to her. He was unshakable and correct in his belief - Kylen had made the same, if unspoken, promise to him. McQueen doubted that at this stage of the game Kylen would lie to General Green. Not at this stage. He gave the General a bland 'don't-kid-a-kidder' type of look. She was forced to smile.

"So ... she has told you a story," he stated. "She must like you."

__

"So, he knows her very_ well. Her talents, and how she reacts to people. Even, perhaps, who she will like and who she won't."_

They watched Kylen move around the floor, the Ambassador teaching her the dance. She was a quick study and was moving fairly well. She was smiling and enjoying herself, occasionally giving a little laugh at her own expense. The Ambassador's wife was attempting to teach Major Howard with less success. In his case, it was the teacher who occasionally laughed. It was all basically good-natured and fun. They were all concentrating, but not with the total seriousness - and certainly not with the passion usually equated with the tango. 

"The tango is a good metaphor, don't you think?" Green asked.

"For Kylen's situation? Yes, I suppose it is." McQueen gave a little hurrumph of amusement. "She will do well," he asserted.

"Yes, I think that she just may," Green responded, chuckling as well. _"After all, Kylen has just been able to get information out of me against my better judgment."_ "An interesting young woman. You know, I didn't think that I would like her."

"Neither did I," McQueen admitted.

Green let his remark float in the air for a few seconds before she filed it away for further analysis. "She could be an asset to an officer." Green spoke with a quiet consideration. "Today there are only four 4-star generals in The Corps, and three of them call her by her first name. Look, they've changed partners. Did you ever think you would see our Commandant learning to dance the tango? And with a twenty-three year old in a long blue dress? And apparently enjoying himself in the process?"

The Commandant was indeed dancing with Kylen. The Ambassador moved along beside them, coaching them in the posture and attitude of the dance.

"Yes, she would be a help to almost any career officer," Becca mused out loud. 

"It doesn't matter," McQueen said. 

Becca gave him a questioning look of such intensity that is almost burned.

"It doesn't matter," he reiterated. "Her fiancé is in for the duration, but I don't see West as a thirty-year Marine." McQueen paused momentarily, thinking of Nathan West. "No, I think that he'll be on the first bus off the base."

"Oh. But where should West go now if we split up your Squadron?"

"West? ... West will bloom wherever he is planted. He is almost ready to be someone's 'Exec.' He'll be better at the paperwork.

"And how does he feel about this?" Green asked as she gestured vaguely to the room, but it was clear to McQueen that she was referring to Kylen working for the Corps.

"No one is thrilled, but we accept her decision." McQueen was immediately conscious of the fact that he had used the inclusive term 'we' - that he had included himself in the circle of family and friends. Green was a skilled interrogator.

"You know her family?" Green asked the question to which she already had the answer.

Green was a good interrogator, but not as good as McQueen ... or she was out of practice ... or she was playing with him. He caught her drift like a bugle call, and was on the alert. She had caught him once. She wouldn't catch him again.

McQueen now looked Green straight in the eyes. "I'm acquainted with her family. All of her brothers and sisters. Her father has invited me to their farm." He emphasized the word 'father' ever so slightly.

"Ah well, there you have it," she said. Green turned back to watch the dance.

Colonel McQueen could not afford - And General Green did not want to see - any scandal surrounding his career. There had been rumors. The Colonel - who was not known to have any personal attachments - seemed very close to this rather attractive and certainly charming young woman. An involvement with a subordinate's significant other would be not only a scandal: It would be a real career burner. It was obvious that the two people were close. And Green could, in all honesty, give a list of reasons why they had probably become friends. Yet and still it was a strange relationship with no easy definition. Green considered what he had just told her. McQueen was her one honest man. He had told her what she needed to know. Those who wished to discredit him could dig all they wanted - but while the friendship was perhaps a bit unseemly, the detractors would come up empty-handed. It would be almost worth it to let the buggers try to find something. It would tie them up for weeks - if not months. _"It could serve my purposes nicely if played well, but I don't have that luxury. No, best to get him out of town and let him do what he does best. You win, Brad, but you knew that you would. You just let me run the exercise for practice, didn't you? Well, the old broad still has a few moves. Tomorrow we get down to the horse trading."_

General Green had been looking forward to her retirement. She had hoped for several good years of spoiling her grandchildren and indulging in her hobbies. Until this evening she had thought that her last duty to Corps and Country had been to postpone her retirement - to see the War through to the end. Now Becca felt that she had found a little something extra to throw in. Icing on the cake. It would be her very last gift to Corps and Country. _"He will probably give me some real headaches over this. He is not going to like a few of my maneuvers, and I'll have to hear his particular brand of bitching and moaning. He will try me and test me, I'm sure. And I'll do more than that to him. But no good thing comes without some work. A good officer grooms her replacement. I can get the wheels in motion." _Green laughed to herself_. "It looks as if I've just acquired a new hobby. Before I leave The Corps I will see at least one star on T.C. McQueen's shoulders."_

The tango ended, and there was more than polite applause. Kylen spoke briefly with the Commandant and the Ambassador, who asked after Colonel McQueen. After a few moments Kylen excused herself to fetch McQueen. She was feeling in fine fettle. If there had been an underlying purpose in inviting her this evening - she would forgive it. Kylen felt great. She had been complimented, petted and praised. She had been treated graciously. She had been treated like a lady. 

She spotted McQueen and the General seated at a table in the bar, and began to cross the reception area toward them. Kylen was momentarily absorbed in self-awareness. If she turned her head she could catch the slightest scent of the perfume she had purchased that morning. She could feel the weight of the necklace around her throat, and feel the sweep of her dress against her legs. The hint of friction as the silk of her sleeves brushed against the silk of the dress. The whisper of sound that it made. She could hear the little tap of her new shoes against the floor, and could feel the way her hips moved forward as she walked, accepting her weight with each step. Even the air against her face as she moved forward through it: It all belonged to her. She felt at that moment as if she could walk through walls - that the waves would part before her. For the first time since the attack of the Tellus vessel - even in this room and city filled with people who had agendas - Kylen felt in control.

General Green assessed the young woman as she crossed the room. Of all the things that Green might or might not be - she was still a woman - and she now saw Kylen with an older, more experienced woman's eye. There was an unconscious sense of power radiating from the young woman who was moving toward them - an aura that Green had not sensed before. _"A few good men in Evening Dress can do a girl wonders, can't they, Kylen?" _she thought_. "Two months ago she was a POW, and tonight_ ...? _'I danced with the man, who danced with the girl, who danced with the King of Spain.' How delightful for her."_ She smiled warmly. "Ah, here she is," Green said.

Without turning around, McQueen stood. He had learned the social graces well. It was after all, what an officer did on such formal occasions. Stand when a woman came to the table. He turned toward Kylen. 

McQueen did not consciously recognize a change in his friend, but he did react instinctively to her demeanor. When he saw her he checked his posture. He stood taller and gave his jacket a tug - squaring himself away. It was an unconscious action on his part. 

Kylen was acutely aware that he had stood for her - that he had paid her the courtesy - that he was treating her differently. She enjoyed the moment, and did not wave him back into his seat. It had been ages since anyone had stood for her. _"Just a few seconds - besides, the Ambassador wants him,"_ she thought.

"So you liked the tango?" General Green asked.

"Yes. Yes, I did." Kylen gave the General a smile, but her voice and phrasing made it seem as if she was talking to herself.

"_Earth to Cinderella. Enjoy the feeling, Child, but not too much,"_ thought Green. Kylen seemed to snap out of it a bit and focused on the General.

"It is precise ... very precise. The Ambassador says that it is really a dance about stillness, not movement." She paused and looked at McQueen. "You might like this dance," she said with consideration. Kylen abruptly remembered the reason she had been looking for the Colonel. "The Ambassador wants to speak with you, by the way." 

"It's either talk to Virtanen or dance the tango with his wife," Green wisecracked. "We are done for now. I'll expect you in my office at 1300 tomorrow. Bring my cigar. Go."

McQueen inclined his head to the General, and started to leave. He had taken only a few steps when he overheard Kylen ask Becca Green: "General, what is the High-Risk Personnel Program?" It stopped him dead in his tracks.

"Major Howard told me that the first thing I needed to do was go through the High-Risk Personnel Program," Kylen continued. Her attention was on the General, and she did not see McQueen's reaction.

Doing an about-face, McQueen made to return to the conversation. This he did not like. Not at all. Green, however, saw his maneuver and waved him away with an 'off-you-go' gesture. When she was sure he was well on his way to the Ambassador, Green turned her attention back to Kylen.

"It is a school down at Quantico. Primarily for diplomatic personnel, but for anyone whose job might put them at risk. Defensive techniques mostly."

Kylen felt that she should feel some alarm - but strangely, she did not. She was supposed to analyze information. She would learn how to take care of herself, something she wanted desperately to learn.

"Do you know the tango, General?" she asked.

McQueen scouted the room. The Finnish Ambassador was at the back of his mind - on hold for the moment. There was something he had to take care of first. McQueen had just found Kylen to be a little more confusing than usual. He felt again like he had missed something. But she had handled herself well so far. And Green was correct: Kylen walked in the full favor of the biggest of the big boys. This was probably the one place in the universe that Kylen was completely safe. And now - _"NOW, when I'm just beginning to read General Green - NOW Kylen shows up, interrupts and is acting just a bit strange. The High-Risk Personnel Program? An analyst sits in an office somewhere just outside the Beltway - Quantico, Langley, DamNeck - maybe the Pentagon. Why does an analyst need the skills taught down at HRPP? No, they have something in mind for Kylen. Something she knows nothing about."_ He spied Major Howard taking the stairway up to the second floor. McQueen followed him.

Howard was looking for an out-of-the-way place to make a call. There was no ulterior motive - no juicy bit of intelligence to pass along. Howard wanted to call his wife in New Jersey just to say goodnight. He entered a small anteroom. A waiting room - with two armchairs - lit by a small lamp on a table. McQueen followed Howard into the room, sat in one of the chairs, and gestured for the Major to do the same. 

"Colonel," Howard greeted McQueen cautiously. There was no answer for several seconds.

"Tell me - just what is your plan for Miss Celina, Major Howard?" McQueen asked quietly - on the edge.

Barton Howard did not immediately respond to the Colonel's question. He had never really totally understood the bond between these two survivors, and was a bit surprised that McQueen would track him down. Especially in this setting. Howard was surprised by the Colonel's insistence. 

"Colonel McQueen, I have no plans for Ms. Celina. She will be on General Radford's staff - his aide, technically."

"And technically, Major Howard, you and I are just two Marine officers discussing personnel assignments," McQueen said, leaning forward in his chair. "Cut the crap. What is going on here?"

"With all due respect, Colonel McQueen, it is 'Need-to-Know,'" Howard replied carefully.

"And how well do you know Ms. Celina, Major?"

"I admire her, Sir. Her resilience and strength of character. Her intelligence. But you are correct, Sir. I don't know her well personally." Howard said. He was becoming uncomfortable. He, Howard, was a member of Marine Corps Intelligence, and McQueen was starting to rattle his cage. 

McQueen stood and crossed to the Major. "Let's talk 'Need-to-Know' for a moment." He placed his hands on the arms of Howard's chair and leaned down until he was eye to eye. Getting into the man's face - effectively pinning the man to the chair. McQueen's expression was impassive; his voice quiet, but tense.

"I'll tell you what you need to know about Ms. Celina, Major. If - when - she finds out that you have been manipulating her - using her - you're liable to wake up one night with her fangs in your throat. And I will not do anything to stop her. Hell, I'll hand her the knife so she can finish the job without breaking a sweat."

McQueen left the room without waiting for a response from the stunned Major. Downstairs the orchestra had started to play the tango again. _"Damn,"_ he thought. There was no way now that he could get out of asking the Ambassador's wife to dance. It had been almost worth it to put it to Major Howard. McQueen did not trust the man, and had wanted to do that for months.


	9. Nine

(Nine)

09 January 2065

Pennsylvania Ave. (en route to Hotel Washington)

Washington DC,

USA

2300

McQueen and Kylen sat together in the back seat of the staff car. A sheet of Plexiglas separated them from the driver - a corporal. Kylen now recognized the sleeve patches for that rank. There really was no need for the extra privacy. They were both tired and silent. Kylen leaned back into the seat and closed her eyes.

McQueen found her to be distant. Not disconnected - she was right there with him - not lost and shaken by something. She just seemed distracted. She was so calm. It was unusual. He decided that as long as when he looked into her eyes she was in there looking back at him he would let it ride. He looked over at her, thinking: _"She'll be asleep before we even reach Capitol Hill. I'll have to wake her up when we get to the hotel."_

McQueen looked out of the window to his left. He took in a deep breath and then let it out slowly. He did it again .... And again .... And then he began the exercise.

_"1862: Mackie,"_ he thought to himself. 

__

"1863: Vaughn, Nugent."

_"1864: Binder; Miller; Martin, James ...; "_

"You look like you are so far away," Kylen whispered, so softly that McQueen was not sure if she had actually spoken or if he had imagined it.

"I am," he murmured. "You too."

It was enough for Kylen at the moment. His tone made it clear that he was not angry or displeased with her. He was just being private. Kylen was used to it and left him alone. She was content.

McQueen went back to his exercise. 

_"1864: Oviatt; Denig; Roantree; Hudson; Sprowle; Smith,Willard."_

"1865: Tomlin, Thompson, Shivers, Fry, Rannahan."

"1871: Brown, Coleman."

Without thinking, and for reasons that he didn't understand, McQueen began to very softly repeat the list out loud. 

"1872: McNamara, Dougherty, Purvis, Steward."

"1876: Owens, Michael."

"1884: Morris."

"1898: Quick; Ford; Franklin; Gaughan; Kuchneister; Hill, Frank."

Kylen felt he was giving her both a hint and a gentle challenge. She became alert. "Marines?" she asked.

"Yes." 

The car was near to The Washington Hotel, and stopped for a light. McQueen tapped on the glass that separated them from the driver. He held up his index finger and drew several flat circles in the air - the signal for "drive around awhile." The corporal nodded and eased the car into the traffic. 

After several minutes Kylen asked: "2062?" 

"No," he said.

After a few moments she asked again, picking a date at random. "1957?"

"No"

"1921?" 

"One of the ones I most admire," he said. "Smith in 1921." He paused, and then in a different tone he said: "Cook in 1964."

"Is it a long list?" Kylen asked.

"Too long."

Kylen had an insight. "They're the Marines who've received the Medal of Honor, aren't they?"

McQueen gave his half-smile. She hadn't let him down.

"Why do you call this list to mind? ... When?" she asked gently.

McQueen paused. "_You brought it up for a reason,"_ he told himself_. "Go ahead."_ He took a breath and centered himself.

"When my time was up - my five years in the mines - I was conscripted to the InVitro platoons. The very same day."

Kylen gave a little gasp. It was horrifying.

"Actually, I suppose it could have been worse," he said. "If I hadn't been conscripted, I would be dead. I would have had to stay in that hellhole. I would have had to work for another two years to make enough money to pay for passage off of Omicron Draconis. No InVitro has ever lived for seven years in those mines. When I got to Earth, I wasn't in a combat platoon. I was in a labor gang."

McQueen decided to skip over the Port Riskin Affair. To cover the time gap in the story, and his time in solitary, he leaned forward and tapped on the glass. There was a faint whirring sound as the window was lowered. "Lincoln Memorial," he ordered. The driver put the window back up. McQueen sat back and continued his story. "During my second year I was transferred into a different unit. I had drawn attention to myself, and the Sergeant decided that I needed to be 'put in my place.' He made it his mission, and he could be very creative. In one of the hallways in headquarters there were portraits of all the Medal of Honor recipients. I didn't know what that meant at the time. Well, I did something that pissed the Sergeant off - can't even remember what it was. He canceled my liberty and gave me thirty-six hours to memorize the list. It was a punishment. And if I failed, I knew that he would come up with something else, and something more, and so on and so on until he found some way - something - to break me. When the time was up he tested me every which way but loose. He couldn't catch me. I was ready. I knew them all backward and forward. I could recite the list alphabetically, or by years, or by rank."

"So you did it," Kylen prompted.

"Yes, I did it. And I learned a lot in the process. I learned that the medal was the military's highest honor. It is still a 'pure' thing. Nobody tries to 'win' the medal. If they do - they screw up. Hell, they probably take out a lot of their buddies as well. I learned that most of the guys were just ordinary grunts doin' their jobs when something extraordinary happened. Loyalty - I already knew about loyalty. And I knew a few things about courage. I learned what tradition was - or rather what it could be. What dedication was." McQueen gave a little smirk. "I learned that I was smarter than the Sergeant, and that I had a good memory. That sometimes I could take control of the events around me. And I learned that I could learn." He paused for a moment, and then spoke again. "After that - as long as I did my job - he left me pretty much alone."

"So you go through the list to get in the mindset for challenges?" Kylen asked.

"No," he responded abruptly. "I don't recite it before action, and I don't use it as a mantra - not in the conventional sense. I use it to remind myself."

The list had evolved. It was similar to McQueen's wedding photograph. And, like the picture, it had become a form of self-discipline. Both had taken on meanings that had little to do with their initial significance. Both things were now reminders of both his failures and his successes.

Kylen could think of nothing to say.

They arrived at the Lincoln Memorial. The driver parked, and waited for orders like a good Marine. McQueen got out of the car and then held out his hand to assist Kylen as she slid across the seat. They walked to the Memorial and started up the steps. There were few tourists. It was getting late, and it was cold for this essentially Southern city. As a New Englander, Kylen found the weather unseasonably warm. Her breath was visible in the night air, but there was no snow.

She returned to the subject. "You were at 1899?" Kylen phrased it as a question.

"There were ten in 1899. I know all their names."

They reached the main floor of the memorial. McQueen looked up into the illuminated face of the statue. 

"I know all their names." McQueen said it again. He spoke as if he expected Lincoln to answer him. 

Kylen almost expected that the statue would. Lincoln had piloted the country through its most turbulent time, and as a result a nation had been created. Lincoln had outlawed the institution of slavery - an institution that the IVA had been able to resurrect on a legal technicality. The InVitro program and the aberration of indentured servitude has lasted for thirty-three years.

__

"If the stones were to speak, they would speak to McQueen," she thought. 

__

"'I do the very best I know how - the very best I can, and I mean to keep doing so until the end.'" he thought, quoting the President's words back at the man's statue.

Kylen waited in silence. After a minute or so McQueen turned and held out his arm for her. 

"Do you know that the statue is carved from marble quarried in Georgia?" she asked. McQueen looked over his shoulder into her eyes - looking for the truth. It was there. He turned back to the sculpture. The irony of it all was not lost on McQueen. "Things may come to those who wait, but only the things left by those who hustle," he softly quoted Lincoln to Kylen.

Kylen took his arm, and together they left the building. When they reached the bottom of the stairs Kylen asked: "You memorized them all - the names and the years - but you said that there are two you really admire?"

At that moment McQueen felt almost ashamed that he hadn't memorized the histories of all the men - even though he knew that that was too big a task. But there were two men - now three with Paul - who meant something special to him.

"Who are they?" Kylen asked. 

"Smith, Albert J. He was just an ordinary grunt standing sentry. It was in 1921 - the very infancy of the airplane. He saw a plane crash, and he pulled the pilot out of the burning wreckage." 

It fit together for Kylen. McQueen was a pilot. All pilots feared fire. There was nothing more that needed to be said about Albert J. Smith's actions. 

Kylen waited, but McQueen said nothing. "You mentioned one other," she prompted. 

"Did I?" he asked.

Kylen almost tripped. There must be a real and distinct reason that he had chosen to suddenly 'forget' something he had so recently said to her. There was a reason that he wanted to drop it. She chose to leave it alone. It was either private or secret. Either way, Kylen did not want to push any buttons. No matter how much she wanted to know, it was not worth creating tension in the evening, which had become personal and private - almost like a night in Maine. 

McQueen escorted Kylen back to the hotel. Silent again, he was deeply ensconced his own bubble. Kylen was well used to it. And while curious, she was not offended. He said good night in the lobby, at the elevators - in full view of the public. Kylen had caught on to the conventions of "public displays of affection." Bridee giving him a kiss - a kiss from a child - in public was one thing. A kiss from her - even on the cheek - would be something else altogether. She took his hand in both of hers, thanked him for a lovely evening, and wished him good night. She gave him a wave as the elevator doors closed. 

The driver held the car door open. "Hains Point. The Awakening," McQueen ordered with purpose as he got into the car. 

Kylen entered her room and took off her coat. Bridee was sound asleep. Kylen was tired, but knew that she would be unable to sleep. She knew that the feeling of control that she had felt - had earned - during the evening would not last. Not with that level of intensity. She knew that it would fade into the background. Kylen was aware that she would again have feelings of confusion in her life - of not being in control. It was, after all, real life. But now she had a touchstone. Having felt it - the sense of control - she was sure that it was a real and not a dream. And if the feeling was real, then she could have it again. The knowledge created a fantastic calm in her heart. Comfort. Kylen was determined to enjoy the feeling until the very last of it drained away. She went to get her father, correctly surmising that he had stayed up until she was home. They went up to the Terrace Room on the top floor of the hotel for a nightcap. They had a skyline view of the city. 

__

"Cook, Colonel Donald G." As McQueen absently looked through his window he thought about the man. McQueen hadn't told Kylen about Cook for a reason - the story was just a little too close to home.

The date on the Medal of Honor Citation technically made it the first awarded to a Marine in the Vietnam War - even though the medal wasn't actually awarded for over ten years. A captain at the time, Cook had been captured by the VC one hundred years ago. December 31, 1964. He had survived for three years. He had rallied, and had been an inspiration to his fellow prisoners. Cook had tried to escape. He had shared his food and medicine with his men, and had finally died of malaria - or so the VC had alleged. In the 1990s the Navy had named a destroyer after this steadfast Marine: The Donald G. Cook. During the C.C. War with the Communist Chinese the Navy had transferred the name to a new space destroyer. The motto of both of the vessels had been, and was: "Faith without fear." During three years of capture, starvation, illness, and encouraging other men - during three years of torture - Cook had never talked. Cook had never been broken.

The driver parked the car and opened the door for McQueen, who walked toward the mammoth sculpture. The driver got back into the car to await the Colonel's pleasure. This place always gave the Corporal the creeps. He tried to avoid the place even in the daytime. The sculpture had been in the ground for just about a hundred years, and DC residents seemed to almost ignore it. It was part of the landscape. Tourists were still fascinated by it, and in his job as a driver for the brass that came into town, the Corporal was often asked to bring people out here. It never got any easier. The place had a bad vibe, and he was sure that his mother would say that it wasn't healthy. The thing was just too weird.

The place - the Awakening - always drew McQueen back. He walked around and through the dimly illuminated artwork. It was literally a sculpted metal giant awakening from the earth - clawing its way out of the ground. Only pieces of the giant were visible as it seemed to be fighting its way out of the earth. Part of a hand and part of a bent leg - and from the expression on the partially freed face and head, awakening was no easy matter. Being trapped was hard enough, but getting out was even more difficult. Forever caught halfway to freedom. The possibility of failing was a heartbeat away. There were moments that McQueen wondered if the giant was not awakening from the earth, but instead being sucked back down into it.

__

"Colonel Cook. Faith without fear." 

McQueen had accepted the fact that his final actions while under torture had been excused. The AIs had learned from the Vietcong, and then had perfected the art. He had lasted for several days. McQueen still had no idea what he had said under torture - no memory - but he knew that he would have said anything. Anything. The torture had been too extreme. The military understood that fact as well. But Paul had been right. It was done to show that you could be broken. That your will would fail before your body. Cook had had a key - a secret place in his soul - that McQueen hadn't been able to find. He hoped that Cook would forgive him. _"I wonder just what is the number on that door?"_ he asked himself.

Closing his eyes, McQueen caught another Lincoln quotation as it floated to the surface. "My concern is not whether you have failed, but whether you are content with your failure." He opened his eyes.

McQueen was not content.

One of the giant's arms was totally free and stretched up to the sky. The hand, however, was not reaching for help. It was bent into a claw - waiting to strike - to tear into the dirt. It was the part of the whole piece that McQueen liked the most. It implied action - not reaction. He had a brief desire to lay out on the ground in the middle of the installation. Ready to be crushed by the metal arms if the giant should move. To feel the giant's heartbeat through the ground against his back. To see the universe from the giant's point of view. To know with certainty that he, T.C. McQueen, could get up, stretch, and walk away. _"I know that already_," he realized._ "Thanks, but no thanks. I already know the view from down there." _

Lincoln had also said: "Always bear in mind that your own resolution to succeed is more important than any other one thing."

As he walked back toward the car, McQueen felt that he was starting to regain control over his life. There were possibilities. _"All in all, Kylen was right. It has been a pretty good evening."_

The corporal jumped out and opened the door. "Henderson Hall," McQueen said, to the young Marine's relief.


	10. Ten

(Ten)

10 January 2065

Gadsby's Tavern

Old Town Alexandria,

Virginia, USA

2100

Inviting the Celina family out to dinner had actually been Becca Green's suggestion. In fact, she had selected the restaurant, her aide had made the reservations, and the same aide had contacted the Celinas to confirm. The General had then dismissed McQueen with: "Convey my compliments to Ms. Celina, and remember to give her my number. Please tell her that I want to see her when she moves down here. Enjoy your evening."

All that had been left for the Colonel to do was to make the usual 'do-you-serve-InVitros?' phone call - and show up. McQueen hated to admit that he would have never thought of treating the Celinas to dinner. General Green had explained the choice in very clear and concise terms.

"One: The food is excellent. Two: The food is plentiful and not overly fancy, so Kylen's teenaged brother ... What did you say his name was again?"

"Allston, Ma'am," McQueen offered.

"Well, Allston won't fidget and complain of near starvation. Three: It isn't just another restaurant. It's really true - George Washington really did eat there. The father will like that bit of history, I imagine" 

__

"Yes, he will," thought McQueen. _"It got my attention."_

"Four: They do it up in period costumes and music. The girls will like that. And five: It isn't like every other restaurant. Everyone will remember this dinner. They will remember the night that Colonel McQueen took them out to dinner at Gadsby's"

What the General had not said, but what McQueen had thought, was: _"And it is a great place to break some news that might not go over too well." _McQueen had observed - from a distance - the way that various families took the news that a Marine was shipping out. And Amy had gone ballistic if he was gone for even a week. He had no idea how Kylen, or the rest of her family for that matter, would take the news: Colonel McQueen was leaving for California at 0800 tomorrow morning.

When they were seated at the Tavern, Allston remarked: "There are a bunch of places like this in Boston."

It was surprising how quickly McQueen felt the bottom of his stomach drop out - how much the remark bothered and disappointed him.

"I've never been to one, though," Allston said. "Have you, Kylen?"

"No, I haven't. Always wanted to, but never got around to it." Kylen beamed at McQueen, who instantly felt much better.

The dinner was a success. The food was good. Kylen and Bridee did love the costumes and the music. Frank and McQueen discussed the Revolutionary War, and Allston ate like a horse.

McQueen broke the news during dessert. It was met with silence.

Kylen put down her fork. Her first thought was: _"I'll never eat pecan pie again."_

"Tomorrow morning?" Bridee asked in clear distress and full adolescent protest. Frank placed a hand on her arm to bring her into check.

Kylen gave herself a little shake. _"Months ago you told yourself that, as his friend, you would do what you could to make his plans and dreams come true. He wanted this. Now, put up or shut up."_ "Is it a good assignment?" Kylen asked with more calm than she felt.

"Better than I'd hoped," he said quietly, turning to look into her face. _"No, it isn't the Saratoga, but it is much better than I'd hoped for,"_ he thought. "I'll be working for General Wierick."

"He's the Supreme Commander of American Forces." Frank stated the obvious.

"Sounds pretty good to me," Allston interjected. "Wait 'til Marty Aalto Guilio hears about it. He thought you were hot stuff before this."

"He **is** hot stuff," Bridee protested.

"No one said he wasn't," Allston shot back.

"Enough," Frank warned. "Let's give Colonel McQueen a better memory than you two snapping at each other." He knew that when the kids got nervous they would take it out on each other. They had all begun to think of McQueen as their personal property. Dinner at the White House had impressed both of the younger children, but McQueen leaving had just driven the reality of war home in a way that speeches and ceremonies could not. "What will you be doing for the General?" he asked, trying to make conversation.

"Dad, he might not be able to tell us," Kylen said, mentally ticking off the different Marine bases she had learned were in California. 

"Have you told Dale and Amy?" Frank asked.

"Not yet."

"But what about all your stuff? Your scarf and the mugs I gave you?" Bridee asked. "Aren't you going to go back up to Maine first?"

"I'm sure Dale and Amy will see to Colonel McQueen's belongings," Frank said.

McQueen had decided that he would call The Barn after he touched down in Twentynine Palms. They would find the wedding picture. It would mess up the truce he and Amy had built, but he didn't see how it could be helped. _"It's time to put that thing away,"_ he thought.

Kylen suddenly remembered the picture. She had already seen it, and

she had never understood it. She doubted that Six would want it made public knowledge, but Kylen already knew it existed. 

"No," she said. "I'll go up and take care of things." Then she began to wing it. "I want to visit them before I start the new job anyway. I'll go up next Wednesday, and the Colonel can call and talk to them and let me know what he wants done with his things."

"You can use our attic," Allston said. The family turned and almost gaped at him: Allston was not known for his practical suggestions.

Frank was proud of his youngest son. "Excellent idea. Now, let's finish dessert, go back to the hotel, and then have a nightcap up in the Terrace Room."

All in all things could have gone worse. All in all it had gone pretty well. McQueen decided that General Green really knew her stuff.


	11. Eleven

(Eleven)

11 January 2065

Suite 832, Hotel Washington

Washington DC, 

USA

0630

McQueen had been correct in his thinking. Frank Celina had slept late - all the way 'til 0530. As they had arranged the night before, McQueen was dropping off a few things to be stored at the farm - his medals, sword and Evening Dress uniform. Not a huge call for those items in the desert. Besides, he had something for Kylen.

Frank opened the door to the suite - the sitting room. "Let me get the girls," he said.

"Let them sleep."

"Ty, you don't have to travel to Massachusetts with those two today - I do. You got time for coffee? Help yourself." He knocked softly on the girl's bedroom door.

"A quick one," McQueen said, pouring the coffee.

Kylen almost immediately emerged from the bedroom. She was wearing the pink Bunny Slippers.

__

"Come to see me off, Boys?" thought McQueen as he checked out her footgear.

"Bridee isn't awake. Can you just go in?" Kylen gestured weakly to the room. She and McQueen briefly locked eyes. As much as he didn't want to do it, McQueen could see that - no matter what it might mean to Bridee - it was important to Kylen.

McQueen paused for a minute in the doorway, watching Bridee sleep. She looked younger than her thirteen years_. "Sleep, sleep happy child, all creation slept and smil'd,'"_ he thought.

Kylen came and stood behind his shoulder. "It's OK, " she whispered.

McQueen squatted down by the bed. "Bridee ... Bridee .... Bridgid," he said softly.

She stirred and slowly opened her eyes. "You've come to say good-bye," she whispered. 

"I've come to say good-bye," he agreed with her.

"Will you see Cooper Hawkes?"

"I don't know."

Bridee propped herself up on one elbow and looked at him with immense gravity. "Will you be careful?"

"I always try," he said with equal gravity.

"Alright then." With that, Bridee put her arms around his neck, hugging him tightly. McQueen was getting used to this, and hugged her back.

"Bye-bye, Tyrus," she whispered into his ear, and then gave him a child's kiss on the neck.

"Good-bye, Bridgid."

Bridee let go and buried her head under her pillow. "I'm trying not to cry," she said.

"I appreciate that."

"I'll just stay in here, OK?"

"That's fine, Bridgid." He stood and left the room, closing the door behind him.

Allston was waiting in the sitting area, and shook the Colonel's hand before stumbling back to bed.

Frank put his hands on McQueen's shoulders. "Take care of yourself, Son. Let us hear from you once in a while." He shook hands and left the room as well, leaving McQueen alone to face Kylen.

Kylen regarded McQueen silently for a few moments. "I thought I was prepared for this. I didn't think it would bother me this much," she said, stepping forward and hugging him.

The statement jolted McQueen: He had been thinking the same thing. He hugged her around the shoulders and lightly kissed her forehead. As was his wont, he covered his emotions with action. He gently separated himself from Kylen, and handed her the book he had brought for her.

"'The Little Prince.' Saint-Exupery," she whispered. Kylen had hoped that McQueen would never find the book. The story of the self-sacrificing little prince hit just a bit too close to the mark - his mark. "Have you read it?" she asked, already knowing the answer.

"I ordered it when I was up in Maine. Your family got me started on the author - and you got me started on fairytales, Kylen."

"But I didn't want you to read this," she blurted before she could stop herself.

"Too late. Dale said something to that effect when he saw that I was reading it. Why?"

Kylen could see that he really had no understanding as to why she would have been afraid for him to read the story - that the Little Prince would offer himself up for death. She could too easily see McQueen doing that.

"Maybe it was just something to do with my nightmares," Kylen hedged. "Tell me, which character did you identify with?"

"The pilot, of course. Come to think of it, I can see you playing a bit of the Little Prince, Kylen."

It made her laugh. Her apprehension had been groundless. She put one arm around his waist, and he placed an arm over her shoulder. Together they walked to the door. McQueen stepped into the hallway.

"Kylen, the most beautiful things - the most important things — what gives them their beauty is something that is invisible.'"

"Saint-Exupery," she whispered, and kissed his cheek.

"Right in one," McQueen said, and then he turned and left.


	12. Twelve

(Twelve)

11 March 2065

Marine Corps Air-Ground Combat Center

Twentynine Palms, California, 

USA

2235

Putting this task force together had been a major challenge. There was the time element. There was the size element. The Marine Air-Ground Task Force - the MAGFT - was twice the size of what had normally been put together. People living in tents in the desert, in the winter. There was the personnel and readiness element. The blending together of experienced and green units - building teams - pairing people together. _"Spreading around the experience and success, as General Green would say."_ McQueen had remembered Becca's phrase numerous time over the last several weeks. The General herself had been calling him almost weekly. She had sent McQueen a new black flightsuit - with all his patches sewn on - with the "request" that if and when McQueen was supervising Forward Air Control that he wear it. McQueen complied and had now gotten used to General Wierick grumbling about 'Becca Boyington and her damn horse trading.'

Training in the field had begun with an almost horrifyingly low performance. General Wierick hadn't been - or hadn't appeared to be - upset or even surprised. The poor level of accomplishment was initially to be expected. For McQueen, those initial debriefings had been exercises in diplomacy. _"Always give some positive feedback. Train your men and women for success - not failure. The philosophy works, but it isn't always easy,"_ he thought. It was now eight weeks later. "They are good to go," he said to himself.

Idle stargazing had become a way for McQueen to unwind, and it was easy in the desert. No light pollution - or very little. McQueen lay on the ground at what had been his forward observation point earlier in the day. Looking up into the sky, he found the constellation Draco. Omicron Draconis - he found that star first. He always did. He looked for Kylen's star, and could not find it. The Evening Star must be below the horizon. Finally, he looked up at the North Star. It was kind of hard to avoid. _Polaris - The Nail of the North - The Polestar - The Jackal of Set._ It had been "his" since New Year's Eve - since before New Year's Eve. Kylen had given it to him. Had given him the "responsibility," as she had called it. And tonight it made him feel uncomfortable. It was no longer a dispassionate light in the sky. It was now a memory and a connection, and for the past three nights it had been the voice of his conscience. 

He had known for three days that he would be shipping out soon. McQueen had known that Kylen - pillar of fire that she was - had known it as well. It had taken him less than an hour after landing in Twentynine Palms to figure out why the Corps had hired her. His suspicions had been confirmed. Kylen didn't have to tell him what she had been doing for the last two months. McQueen had become intimately familiar with her work.

__

"The North Star - The Steering Star - Lodestar - The Lance of Longinus - The Angel Star," he thought. He looked at his watch and laughed. By the time he called Kylen it would be 0300 in Virginia. 

"Colonel McQueen?" The voice belonged to Captain Marshall Chan, an earnest and effective man who had been functioning as McQueen's aide since his arrival. In the two months that they had been working together, Chan couldn't remember ever hearing Colonel McQueen laugh. And now the man was up there alone in the dark - laughing out loud. The Captain wondered if he would ever truly understand McQueen. "We are all squared away below, Sir. Would you like a ride back to your quarters?" 

"Thank you, Captain. I'll be down presently." 

12 March 2065

Female BOQ

Marine Corps Command and Control

Quantico, Virginia,

USA

0300

Kylen had awakened a little after 0200 following a vivid dream. It had almost been a nightmare, but she had been able to wake herself up using the trick that Dr. Feller had taught her. In her dream, Kylen had looked at her hands. After shaking off the worst of her jitters, Kylen had taken a shower and washed her hair to relax her nerves - and her psyche.

The phone rang. Kylen looked at her clock and hastily put on a robe. She had been half expecting this phone call for the past three days. Sure enough, when she hit the 'accept' button, McQueen's face appeared.

"Is this the right time?" he asked, clearly amused with himself. It was a three am. phone call that only friends can make. She had introduced him to the concept.

"My time is your time, McQueen," she jested right back.

"I thought about you tonight," he admitted. "I thought about something that made me laugh."

"That's why I'm here, Six. I provide the comic relief."

"Working hard?" he asked with a bit of concern. She couldn't have had an easy time these last two months.

"Hardly working," she joked back. Kylen had been pushed to her limits the past eight weeks. The Corps basically had her doing double duty. She was attending classes, training in defensive tactics, getting crammed with cryptography and security ... and at the same time being pulled hither and yon to answer questions, analyze new data, and offer her opinions. Either one could have been a full-time job.

McQueen had, of course, immediately seen that Kylen's hair was wet. And he knew what that usually meant.

"Nightmare?" he asked.

"Not surprisingly. They told me to expect it. It wasn't a bad one. I was able to wake myself out of it," she said, holding up her hands to the camera.

McQueen noted that the last of the blackness had disappeared from her fingernails. Kylen sported an immaculate manicure. "They look good," he observed.

"They do, don't they," Kylen said with a touch of satisfaction, looking at her hands. "But, it's funny, in my dreams they are still all beat-up and ugly. Oh, Bee asked me to say hello."

__

"Bee? Bee?" he thought. _"She means Becca Green."_

"Give Bee my best," he said.

They were communicating on McQueen's secure channel, but it was only a 'secure' and not a 'compartmentalized' channel. They both knew that they could not talk about what was uppermost in their minds. They both knew that McQueen was skirting the boundaries of security by contacting her at this time - so close to the start of a mission. They both were determined not to say or do anything that could ever be considered a breach in security. 

"Well, this was just my usual 'checking-in-with-you' call. I better let you go back to sleep," he said, having grown tired of the charade. He had never made just 'checking-in-with-you' calls.

"Fat chance. Wait ... what made you laugh?" Kylen asked.

McQueen had remembered the fight that he and Kylen had had in Maine. At one point he had told her: "One day you will do what I tell you." And she had waspishly replied: "And one day I will get to hear you really laugh out loud."

"You missed it," he said. It seemed important to McQueen - urgent - that he tell her this story before he left Earth.

"Missed what?"

"I asked Dale Steinbeck why you didn't want me to read that book," he said. "And yes, he did tell me."

"So," she said a bit defensively.

"Kylen, I have to tell you ... It made me laugh out loud."

The sounds of Kylen's laughter rolled through the air. 

"See you soon, Six."

"See you soon, Small Change."

They both knew that would not be seeing each other any time soon, and reluctantly signed off. They both had big responsibilities to attend to.

Operation Brass Ring. 

Kazbek.


	13. Thirteen

(Thirteen)

16 March 2065

Marine Corps Logistics Base

Albany, Georgia

USA

1845

Exactly thirty-seven hours, forty-three minutes, and twenty-eight seconds after the military heavy launch vehicle carrying Colonel T.C. McQueen lifted off from Earth, en route to the Space Station Goddard, an ISSCV landed at Albany Logistics Base. Three hours, twenty-three minutes, and nineteen seconds later the Private on duty scanned the ID tag of one of the ninety-two footlockers that had been unloaded to facilitate the reroute to its final destination. All of the footlockers belonged to servicemen and women who had been shipped back home - or who had died. The device in the Private's hand automatically searched the system for the most recently listed next-of-kin/home address of the owner. 

A label spat out.

Col. T.C. McQueen, USMC

C/O Ridge Farm

South Barre, MA 551076 -8539

USA.

McQueen's personal effects from the Saratoga had finally made their way back to Earth.


End file.
